Backwoods
by mrsdaisybuchanan
Summary: Daryl makes one reckless decision, allowing himself to be pulled into a dream he had let die long before the outbreak. DarylxCarol.
1. INTRO: 136

Hey y'all! This is my first Walking Dead fic and I'm delighted you've decided to read it. If all goes according to plan it'll be pretty lengthy. Read, review and enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own The Walking Dead. As of my last paycheck, I now own all the current volumes but the series ain't mine.

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><p>Daryl knew how to keep a secret. He was a tight lipped son of a bitch, something he came by honestly: His mama had been the same way. Merle, however, was the opposite. Jesus. Merle could go on and on. No force on Earth could stop him from saying what he wanted to say. It was easier for Daryl to control himself. To keep his mouth shut. He didn't need to brag, not like Merle.<p>

"This one's just about full. Look like we hit the jackpot, doesn't it?"

When they were boys, they did everything together. Everything that kids could do, growing up in Bumfuck Nowhere, Georgia. They stole their dad's cigarettes and smoked them behind the liquor store. They beat up the kid with glasses and used his glasses to set ants on fire. They went to church on Sunday morning and on Sunday nights, they threw rocks through the church windows. Merle was always the violent one. The one that wanted to take it one step further. He was the one that shot the Johnson's dog, even though Daryl had been the one to choose a branch from the tree and grit his teeth while his dad gave him 500 licks. He still had a few scars, too.

"Yeah. Real nice, Chinaman."

"Oh, fuck you man. I'm from Korea."

"That don't make one bit of difference."

Glenn pulled the cap of his hat lower and turned his back on Daryl. He continued to siphon gas from the truck, coughing every so often.

Daryl walked further down the deserted highway. He was close and he couldn't pretend otherwise. They were already far enough down the road, far enough away from any civilization, that the highway had been reduced to a four lane road. Two going north, the others south. He knew exactly where they were. How many times had he driven down this road? In about another 10 miles the traffic lights would start. Another 15 or so after that and there it would be. State Road 136. He had always joked with himself, saying that even if the world went to shit that road would still be there. Same as always. Now that the world had actually gone to shit, his belief was just that much stronger. He had to go. They had been at the farm for weeks – maybe even months – and he hadn't gone yet. It wasn't right. And he doubted he could keep the secret much longer. He was bursting at the seams. Unraveling. He couldn't wait.

"Why don't yah head back to camp, boy? Gonna get dark soon."

Glenn wiped his mouth, the back of his hand glistening with spit and gasoline.

"And what about you?"

Daryl straightened his back, tightening his grip on the crossbow. He knew how intimidating he looked. It was something he had once hated, but now? Hell. It was his favorite thing, behind the crossbow. "What? Think I can't hold my own?"

"Not what I said. But I can't show up without you. Everyone'll think you're dead."

"Let 'em think it then," he muttered. "Dumb bastards."

"And then when I tell them you're alive, they'll kill me for letting you go off on your own."

"Fuck them. And you. I got shit that needs doin' and I don't need your yellow ass slowin' me down."

Glenn stood up and slung his backpack over his shoulder. Without even so much as a glance back at Daryl, he loaded the gas canisters into the truck and drove away.

As soon as he was gone, Daryl climbed onto his bike and twisted the throttle. The engine roared to life and he kicked off, crossing the grassy strip to the southbound side of the highway and continued north. It was free of cars. He didn't have to worry about moving anything out of the way. Walkers couldn't get him when he was going 90 and he doubted a cop would pull him over for driving on the wrong side of the road.

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><p>Like I said, hope y'all enjoyed! Review. Let me know what you think! And if anyone else is a fellow Atlanta native, let me know. :)<p> 


	2. What Haunts Us

Thank you to everyone who reviewed! I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. I'm starting to like this story a lot and I'm glad y'all are too! I had no intention of posting this chapter so quickly, so don't get used to it. I just couldn't resist. ;)

ResidentGoth: yes, it is so strange! I've lived inside the Perimeter my whole life and I go to school downtown. It's strange seeing walkers standing on the steps to some of the buildings I have classes in. I remember when they were filming the zombie mob scene in the first episode. ;)

Disclaimer: I still do not own TWD. I do own a puppy though. I think I'll name him Daryl. Or Dixie. What do Y'ALL think I should name him?

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><p><em>His heart was racing, his palms sweating. He could barely hold on to the rope.<em>

"_Don't be a pussy, Daryl."_

"_Quit it."_

"_Quit being a pussy."_

_His footing wasn't steady. One false move and he would slip. That would be worse. Or would it? If he slipped, he would be sure to fall. Hit his head on a rock or two. Maybe then Merle would leave him the hell alone. _

_He looked over the edge of the bluff. The river wasn't more than 50 feet below him. He swayed on the spot, unable to keep his eyes open. 50 feet of opportunities for him to crack his head open and spill his brains into the Chattahoochee. He couldn't do this. He started to back away, back towards solid ground. Merle didn't miss a beat._

"_Knew yah wouldn't do it, dipshit prick."_

_That was only the beginning. It would get worse. Merle would make fun of him for days after. Wake him up in the middle of the night to taunt him. He'd pour water on him and ask if he was afraid. That was the type of shit that Merle did. He couldn't ever let anything go. He found a weakness, and like a scab, he'd pick at it until it burst. He already had enough on Daryl. He wouldn't pussy out this time. _

_He twisted his hands around the rope and yanked down, testing it. It refused to give. It didn't break for Merle and Merle had a good 20 pounds on him. Holding tightly to the rope, he stepped backwards, this time to gain leverage. _

"_Don't mean nothin'," Merle shouted up. "Yah ain't gonna do it. Ain't got the balls."_

"_Fuck off," Daryl muttered, more to himself than anything. _

_He thrust himself forward, his toes scraping the rock, and as the rope swung like a pendulum over the water, he let go. _

The constant growl of the engine was the only sound for miles. Daryl hadn't seen another soul in a good hour, alive or otherwise. He really was out in the boondocks. He thought – just for a second – that maybe the infection hadn't reached this far yet. Maybe they were all safe. Everyone was still alive and just the same as he had left them. But that was dangerous thinking. That's why he had lasted so long out here – why he had done so well. He didn't let himself think stupid shit like that. When he let himself indulge on those little fantasies, that was when it was all over. He might as well pretend that the first girl he ever fucked was waiting for him back at home, just sitting on his bed, ready to go. He might as well pretend that she hadn't died in that car crash long before the world had gone to shit. If he was gonna wish the Walkers were restored to their former selves, why just stop there? He might as well wish the dead – the real ones – were gonna get up and start walking too.

The countryside looked the same. It always did. Even after all the hurricanes in 2004, it didn't change. The same buildings were there. The same houses. Most of the cars were gone but it unnerved Daryl, how undisturbed everything was. It looked as though the people he had known – his neighbors and friends – could simply be at work. Not roaming around the streets with their jaws hanging off their faces or their stomachs slashed open, holding their guts in their arms.

When he passed the church, he stopped. He had no intention of doing it, but he couldn't help it. He had spent so much time in that shit shack, even if he didn't believe a word of what he was hearing, he still felt some sort of respect for the place. Mt. Zion Baptist Church. His parents had been married there and maybe if things hadn't gotten so fucked up, he would have too. Not Merle though. The thought of Merle getting married actually made him laugh out loud. The bitch that married Merle would have to be brain damaged. He dismounted the bike and walked around the perimeter, crossbow loaded, looking out for walkers. But there wasn't a single one.

He felt so damn sentimental. He wasn't the sentimental or even the pensive type. He didn't know what to do about it. He couldn't stop thinking about the marquee. The years of his youth all ran together, but he couldn't stop thinking about the time Father had gotten angry at him and Merle and changed the marquee to read "DIXON BOYS, CHURCH IS FOR ME. NOT FLIRTING. - GOD." Now it read "DO NOT FEAR – GOD HAS A PLAN".

That was when he let it all go. For the first time in months, Daryl felt the despair, the anger, the _hopelessness _inside of him reach a fever pitch. He sank to the ground and buried his face in his hands, weeping silently. If only Merle could see him now. Jesus. He really wouldn't hear the end of it.

He laughed dryly. Even now, Merle still had that sadistic control of him. He was dead and gone. He had to be. He hadn't seen him in months and he could still scare Daryl in ways the walkers couldn't. All the horrors he had seen, the atrocities he committed, and nothing had changed. Merle would control him until his dying day. And probably beyond that, too.

"Pull yourself together," he mumbled aloud.

He ran a hand through his hair and mounted his bike. He kicked off, not looking back.

After that, it didn't take long to get there. He liked the mountain roads. The danger of the sharp turns. Knowing he could die at any minute, that's what really excited him. That's how he wanted to go. Killed in a motorcycle accident. Not bitten by some shit for brains walker. That's probably the way he would have died in the real world. If Merle shoot him first, at least.

And then, there it was.

The shack was just as decrepit as ever. But just as he suspected, it was exactly the same. The tall, overgrown grass. The sagging porch. The car graveyard round back. Even the Confederate flag flying. The windows were greasy and the front door was open, the screen door closed. Exactly the fucking same. For all he knew, his father and Merle could have been inside, smoking meth together – or whatever the hell it was that they did.

Out of habit, he parked the bike in the same place. Against the tree. The same one that him and Merle (well, mostly him) had been forced to break branches off of to be beaten with. He scratched nervously at the nape of his neck. It felt too quiet. Too still. But he continued on, anyway. The porch creaked under his boots and the screen door screeched when he pulled it open. Just like he remembered. He was sweating now. He pulled the rag from his back pocket and wiped his forehead. It would be getting dark soon. He didn't have a lot of time. Enough time. Jesus Christ. He was getting really hot. He couldn't stop sweating. He had to hurry.

He pushed through the kitchen, fighting a wave of nausea as the smell of rotting food hit him. It wasn't a big house. Just down the hall and he would know. The door was closed, the skull of some poor animal nailed to it. He had never asked Merle but he knew it was the Johnson's damn dog.

He was frantic. The room. Jesus. It had been years since he had been in there but it was exactly the way he had left it. His bed, pushed against the wall opposite the door, right below the window. Merle's bed, on the wall beside it. The closet was open and it didn't take him long to find it. Merle had never been good at hiding things. He believed in plain sight worked for everything. But Daryl had seen him taking that box down and putting it up so many times he thought even his walker self would be able to find it. He held it tightly, his vision blurred and hair plastered to his forehead. He stumbled out of the house and his immediate thought was to burn it. Just burn it down to the ground. But he got on the bike and drove off. His fever was probably going to kill him before he made it back to camp, and he was slipping in and out of sanity but he had driven the bike completely smashed enough that this was nothing in comparison.

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><p>Bit of a cliffhanger there! Again, hope you enjoyed. Please review!<p>

Again, I had no intention of posting this chapter so quickly. Please don't hate me if it takes a couple of weeks to get the next one up!


	3. Man Of Faith

Well, here I am again! I know I keep saying I'm not going to put these chapters up so quickly, but I really can't control myself. ) This chapter has some more mature content. I might bump the rating up to M. Not sure yet. Anyway, I hope y'all enjoy. Please review! I'm a total review whore. I'm only in it for the reviews. ;)

Disclaimer: I don't own The Walking Dead. If I did, I don't think anybody would want to watch it.

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><p>He was slipping in and out of reality. The trees on either side were a blur. The cars an indistinguishable mess of gold, blue and red.<p>

_Daryl, I know you. You're better than that brother of yours. Don't go lettin' him pull you down with him._

The bike rocked dangerously and the sun was slipping far too low on the horizon. It was a beautiful sunset. He never saw anything beautiful. Not anymore.

_She put her hand on her thigh. Sweet Jesus. She was looking right at him and that hand was just sitting there. Sweet baby Jesus. Danger. Danger. _

_You don't know me. You don't know a single damn thing 'bout me. And don't you talk about Merle that way, stupid bitch. _

The turn was coming up soon. He cut back across the divider. His reflexes were slow. His strength waning. Sweat was dripping into his eyes and his breathing was short, clipped. He fought to keep his eyes open. The strap of the crossbow was digging into his neck, no doubt puncturing the skin.

_And the hand just kept creeping up._

_Quit callin' me a stupid bitch._

_Dear Lord. His hands were big. Clumsy. He didn't know what the hell he was supposed to be doing with them._

_She leaned forward, the cross around her neck falling forward. Dangling in midair. Jesus was hanging on the cross. He didn't think Jesus would approve._

_Quit actin' like one._

He slowed. The world was threatening to fall out from underneath him. He reached up to pull the strap away from his neck, to assess the damage it had done, and he lost his balance. He crashed into the car beside him, his arm plunging through the glass.

The pain hit him immediately.

He pulled his arm back, cursing under his breath. The gashes were deep, the glass embedded under his skin. The cloth of his shirt was frayed and already bloodstained. He was already loosing a lot of blood. Too much blood. It was all happening too fast. Black spots appeared in his vision and he damn near cursed himself into Hell. He couldn't stay here. Not anymore. The walkers would smell him and he'd be dead before the sun went down. He thrust the bike back into life. His arm hurt like a motherfucker. White hot pain shot from the tips of his fingers up to his shoulder every time he moved; and sharp, pulsing pain when he tried to keep it still.

Almost there.

He was almost there.

Just another mile and he could close his eyes. Let himself give in.

_She took his hand and slipped it under her shirt. Holy shit. It was happening. Holy fucking shit. What would Merle say? He was about to fucking do it with Sarah Jane. _

_Don't go wastin' any time, now. _

_He was nervous. Jesus Christ was he nervous. _

_Her hand was finally there. Oh lord. Oh Jesus. _

_Shut up and fuck me, you stupid redneck. _

The farm finally came into view and the pain in his arm just about overtook him. He stopped the bike and by some miracle he managed to disentangle himself from it. He hobbled forward. Somebody was on the porch. Pointing at him. Running towards him. He was safe. He could finally close his eyes. He sank to his knees and just let it sink in. There was nothing. Not anymore.

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><p>His arm didn't feel right. It burned. A deep, relentless, throbbing burn. It was constricted and on fire and he couldn't move it.<p>

"You've sure got a lot of tattoos."

He thought – just in the moment before the room came into view – that he was back with Sarah Jane. But the woman was too old. Her hair too long. Face too kind. And well, she was alive.

Carol sat beside him, wiping blood and sweat off of his face with a rag.

He sat up and felt as though his very brains had been rattled. He remembered the arm. Had he passed out and taken an arrow to the head? He looked down. His shirt was gone and his arm was bandaged. Blood was already beginning to seep through the thin white strips.

"Sunnovabitch."

He couldn't think straight, let alone form sentences. All he could feel was pain. He was consumed by it. He was strangely aware of his heart beating. The blood rushing in his veins. Every time his heart pumped it brought a new wave of pain, mocking him. Instantly, he thought of Merle. Merle was tough as nails. He wouldn't have crashed the bike, and even if he did he wouldn't have let a few pieces of glass do anything to him. He wouldn't have passed out. Hell, he'd probably be out hunting already.

"Yeah, I thought you'd say something like that. How're you feeling?"

He swatted her hand away. "Like it's my fucking birthday. Now tell me, who in the hell shot me in the head?"

She frowned at him, folding the rag up and tossing it aside. "What are you talking about? You hit your head. Practically crashed your bike. You got off of it and then just fell over it."

"Like hell I did."

He leaned back, every nerve in his body screaming, every bone aching.

"Herschel went to sleep a while ago. I'll go wake him. He'll be glad you're up."

"How long I been out for?"

"Couple'a hours."

He looked around the room. Slowly, this time. He was still nauseous and his head hurt something awful, but he didn't want Carol to know that. He wouldn't let her see any hint of weakness. He was raised better than that. Raised. Hell. He had raised _himself _better than that. Merle had hardly been around. He was in and out jail. Every time he came back he was tougher, more sadistic. Daryl had quickly learned better than to show any weakness. Merle might not have been the smartest son of a bitch below the Mason-Dixon line, but he never forgot anything: Never gave Daryl an easy time of anything. He knew all of his fears, his weaknesses, and he would be damned if he didn't attack him where it hurt the most. Daryl had to be strong, no matter what. He would never let the shit that had happened with Merle happen again.

He surveyed the room, taking in the surroundings. He was inside the house. That much he knew. The air was stiff and still, the windows darkened. There was no sign of life from outside the closed door.

"It's the middle of the damn night, ain't it?"

"Closer to the morning now."

"Why ain't you asleep?"

Carol picked the rag back up and folded it. "Herschel wanted someone to keep an eye on you. Make sure you were okay when you woke up. Let me go get him."

He sighed deeply. That hurt too. He had really done a number on himself. "Don't go wakin' 'im up. It's amazin' anyone can sleep out here. I'll just talk to 'im when he gets up."

She folded and unfolded the rag. "He thinks you have a concussion."

"Well ain't that great. Damn near killed myself – probably did worse by my bike – and I got me a souvenir."

"Your bike's fine. Is that all you really care about?"

The windows seemed to be lightening. Or maybe he was imaging it. Either way, he doubted he was out for just a few hours.

"Damn straight it is."

She threw the rag back down and stood up. "You had us all worried to death and all you can think about is your stupid bike? You know, maybe you should go back to sleep."

She turned and was gone, slamming the door behind her.

"Damn women, man," he muttered to himself. "World goes to shit and I still got no idea what the hell they're talkin' 'bout."

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><p>And there you have it. I may or may not put the next chapter up within the next 48 hours. Depends on how debaucherous my weekend is. ;D Y'all make sure to review now! I love the feedback and I'm pretty open for suggestions. And maybe some brave soul is willing to be my beta?<p>

Also, on another note, this made me giggle uncontrollably. Oh, Daryl. :3 .com/post/19346217786/oops


	4. Days of Yore

Hey guys! Here it is, as promised. I'll be honest. This is not my favorite chapter so far. I have the next one mostly completed, and I like it a lot more. But maybe y'all will like this? Who knows. I just wanted to get it up after the finale. Anyways, I don't want to give anything away for those who haven't watched the finale yet, but HOLY SHIT. My two favorite things from the comic were introduced. Well, my favorite character and the story arc that ends with the death of my least favorite character. :D I don't know how I'm going to last until the fall. Guess I'll spend my summer trying to weasel my way onto set.

But y'all know the drill. I don't own TWD. Robert Kirkman does, that bastard.

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><p>When his mama went, he was beside himself.<p>

He was only seventeen – and hardly, at that. Merle was in jail. His old man was off doing God knows what with God knows who. Daryl was alone. He had to fend for himself. Take care of himself. By no means was his mama a saint, but Lord, he still missed her. He had no way to heal. No way to bring himself any closure. There were no pictures of her that he could take down. No handwritten recipes he could try and make. No hand-woven blankets he could wrap himself in. He was a Dixon boy, and Dixon boys didn't do that type of that shit. There were no pictures in that godforsaken house that weren't of naked women. There were no recipes – let alone ones his mother had written. They had blankets, sure, but they were thin and flimsy and made in China. He couldn't even drop out of school. He wasn't registered at the local high school.

The doctor had said she died of natural causes. The doctor was some crackpot hotshot from the city. He wasn't a country boy. He didn't have the lay of the land. Everyone who lived on that shitty little stretch of road knew that Old Man Dixon was the reason she was dead. He had beaten the life right out of her. She just gave up. Laid down and died and that was the end of it.

When Merle came home from jail he acted as though she had never existed. Dealing with things wasn't exactly his strongest suit. If he had any type of pain or emotion, he took it out on the squirrels and stray cats that wandered past him. And when his old man came home, he wasn't sober enough to acknowledge the two boys, let alone the fact that he had beaten his wife to death.

Just after that – just days after his mama died – was when Sarah Jane got hit by the car and she died too. Daryl thought it was funny, in a way. She hadn't come around often, but when she did, she got along great with his mama. The two women got along better with each other than he did with either of them. But he lost his mama and then he lost the girl and he tried to drink _himself _to death, but it never really worked.

When his old man went, he was over the moon. He had managed to scrape by for a few more years, surviving on cheap cocaine and dried jerky. Daryl was older then. He had planned on leaving, anyway. But Merle got to him first. Bastard wouldn't let him go.

_We're in this together, baby brother. _He had told him, right before beating him senseless.

Merle didn't handle his death well. He drank more. Brought home more women that didn't make it till the morning. Bought more guns. Got more tattoos. Some of the shit that he started smoking, well, Daryl doubted even Lucifer himself would approve.

"What're you thinking about?"

The sun was streaming in, even through the boarded up windows. Not even 10 in the morning, and it was already upwards of 80 outside. He was sore all over and his head and arm hurt so badly he thought he might throw up. Carol was beside him, yet again. He had gotten used to the woman's presence. Her stares. He could tell that she was judging him, trying to figure out what was going on in his head. He didn't think the woman needed his life story.

"Nothin'. I ain't thinkin' 'bout nothin'."

She crossed her arms, one hand immediately going to the pendant around her neck. She turned it over in her fingers. "I know your type, Daryl. You're worth so much more than you think you are. Even if you were raised by filth and negligence, you're better than that. You're only kidding yourself when you think otherwise. I know you. And I knew your brother. Don't go comparing yourself to him every chance you get. Don't pull yourself down."

"You ain't the first woman to tell me that." He almost didn't realize what he had said. Almost. "Well, fuck me. I ain't doin' this."

"Doing what?"

"Playin' house," his voice was sharp, his eyes narrowed. I don't know if you noticed but fuckin' dead people are comin' alive and eatin' us. We don't got time to play these games. I ain't gonna tell you 'bout me and you ain't gonna tell me 'bout you. It's stupid. And we ain't afford to be stupid. What do it matter? What I'm thinkin' 'bout? It don't make a damn bit of difference."

Keeping her eyes fixed on him, she undid her necklace and placed it on the bedside table.

"What'd you do that for?" Daryl asked, his voice sharper than ever.

"What does it matter? I thought we weren't going to play this game."

"Well, fuck me twice. Shame on me. Whatever the fuck the sayin' is."

She offered him a fleeting smile. "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me."

"Whatever." He pushed himself up into a sitting position using his good arm. His shirt was off and not only was his arm heavily bandaged, but his chest and head were too. His hair was plastered to his forehead right at the crest of his hairline, and he doubted it was with sweat. He didn't know for sure but he thought it was blood. He had probably cracked his head open when he fell over. Wouldn't be the first time. "You gonna tell me or what?"

She was definitely smiling now. "Nope. It doesn't matter, remember."

"Oh c'mon, woman. You ain't gonna leave me hangin' like this."

She opened her mouth to speak right as the door opened. Herschel walked in carrying a large glass of water and a small pill bottle. She immediately stood, offering him the only seat. He took it gratefully. He put the bottle and the glass down on the table, spilling just a little water on her necklace.

"Well if it ain't the doctor. Just the man I was hopin' ter see."

"I'm sure you're wondering what happened to you." Herschel, as always, was impassive. His voice was calm, his face even. "And I know you have trouble controlling your temper, so I-"

"-The fuck's that got to do with any of this?"

Herschel rolled his eyes and Carol pursed her lips. He continued as though Daryl hadn't interrupted. "So I request you remain calm and remember that I am extending my hospitality to you. You are sleeping in my bed, eating my food, using my medicine and corrupting my daughters with your foul mouth."

Daryl grunted. Whether in agreement or not, Herschel didn't seem to mind.

"It's pretty simple, really. Your body needs certain nourishments. They're vital to life and to everyday functions. Without them, your body will slowly shut down. You'll run a fever. Become delusional. Lose your vision. Simple motor functions become difficult. And that's what happened to you."

"And in English?"

"You were dehydrated."

Immediately, Daryl felt his face burning. Sweet Jesus in Heaven. What the fuck would Merle say? He'd beat the living daylights out of him, that's what he'd do. He'd never – not even if hell iced over – let Daryl live this one down. Dehydrated. He had been fucking dehydrated. _I thought only pussies got dehydrated, _he'd say. _Hell, then I guess I ain't surprised, baby brother. _Jesus. He really couldn't believe it. He felt humiliated. Demoralized. He looked first to Herschel and then to Carol.

"What?" he growled. "Think it's funny? Gonna go'n tell everyone? Daryl Dixon ain't drinkin' enough water and he went and crashed his bike?"

"No," she said softly.

She wouldn't look away. Daryl could feel his embarrassment growing: Blossoming on his face.

"Just drink more water," Herschel said softly, standing up and crossing to the door. "I've left you something for the pain. Just drink the water and nobody will have to know."

He opened the door and nodded to Carol on his way out. He pulled the door shut without so much as a second glance.

Carol sat back down. "You don't need to be embarrassed."

The anger was beginning to build in his stomach. He could feel it swirling and mounting. He just couldn't believe it. He was no stranger to self-loathing. But Jesus. This was something different all together. He felt vulnerable – and that just made him feel worse.

"Shut yer fuckin' mouth. You don't know nothin'."

She ignored this. She was good at weeding her way through his vehement outbursts. She inched the chair closer to the bed and picked up the pill bottle. She unscrewed the top and shook one out. "I know you'd probably like to take these all at once but I think you should only have one. Supplies are limited. If the pain's really that unbearable, just let me know."

She held the pill out for him, and when he didn't take it, she sighed.

"Don't need no medications. Just some scratches is all."

She brought her hand to her face in exasperation. "Daryl, just take the pill. I'm not going to question your manhood or anything. I won't even tell Herschel you took one. I know how tough you want to look and how tough you actually are. So just take the damn pill."

He was taken aback by the swear. Hesitantly, he pushed himself closer to her. He took the pill and swallowed it dry, never taking his eyes off of her.

He was close to her. Much, much too close. He could make out the freckles on her face, the lines on her skin.

When she kissed him, he felt as though he was doing it for the very first time.

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><p>Hope you liked it! Please review! And a HUGE THANK YOU to everyone who has reviewed! Getting those emails always makes my day! I'm a strange little creature, I know.<p> 


	5. The Morning Light

Hey y'all! I'm considering changing the rating to M just to be safe. This chapter has a little bit more mature content, and of course, more delicious Daryl cursing. ;)

I don't own TWD. In a perfect world, I'd be one of the writers. But in the meantime I'm just a lowly college student. It's good to dream though, right?

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><p>She was a city girl. Born and raised in Nashville. She was tall and skinny and always kept her hair long. The boys liked it better that way. When she moved to Georgia she was sixteen. She didn't want to, had cursed her mama and daddy to hell, but she had no choice.<p>

Needless to say, she blew the boys away. The boys. Lord. The boys with dirty faces and thick southern accents, packing pieces. The boys that had every detail of the Civil War (or, as they liked to call it, the War of Northern Aggression) down to a T, but had flunked out of high school before they were even sophomores. They liked her because she was new. She was a stone-cold bitch, sure, but she was pretty and she was from the city and mysterious and she had this way of flirting without really flirting at all. Daryl was crazy about her, right from the beginning. He kept it to himself, though. Merle had never really moved past the terrible two's phase. He still felt a sense of entitlement to everything around him, especially if it belonged to someone else. And while Daryl wanted to wreck the girl six ways from Sunday, he wanted to be the only one doing it.

She took an interest in him, though. Damn near drove all the other boys mad, when they caught wind of it. Had it been anybody else, they would have done something about it. Jumped him, broken all the windows in his house. But he was Daryl Dixon, after all. If he wasn't intimidating enough, they still had Merle to answer to. Merle felt he was the only one who could knock Daryl around – other than the old man, of course. In a way, Merle was the best protection he could ever ask for. He was just so damn scary. No one wanted to do so much as look at him the wrong way.

Daryl always wondered if Merle ever found out. He was already doing stints in juvie, but the whole town knew. Merle never said anything, never gave him any unwarranted beat downs. Daryl tried to keep it hidden, but she was such a fucking diva. He wouldn't have been surprised if she had asked for a glass of ice water, straight out of hell – and he wouldn't have been surprised if he had gotten it for her. She hardly ever came to him. He always went to her. He wanted to think he was getting away with it. But he had a hard time convincing himself. Even now, more than a decade later, he still found himself turning over certain days in his head. Running through certain conversations with Merle, trying to figure out if he knew. Yeah, he loved his brother. But he was fucking terrified of him.

Sarah Jane was a few years older than him and she made sure he was constantly reminded of it. She talked about college and how soon she would be going. She talked about growing up in Tennessee and all the guys she had fucked. She wouldn't fuck him, though. She'd screw around with him until he was buck naked, hard and desperate. And then she'd stop.

_You're too young. _She'd say.

It finally happened weeks before she went off to school.

_Shut up and fuck me, you stupid redneck._

Jesus. Those words still sent shivers down his spine. Still could get him hard.

She had climbed on top of him with nothing but her bad intentions and that cross with Jesus on it. She moaned his name like it was going out of style but she wouldn't let him kiss her. No, no. That was against the rules. She had to be the one to kiss him. All the years they had screwed around, and he could still count the number of times they had kissed on one hand.

Carol, however, was the opposite.

She was silent beneath him, her mouth practically glued to his. There was no sound other than the squeak of the bed frame and his occasional grunt.

He pulled out before he finished and collapsed onto his back. She rolled onto her side, pressing herself against him. He pushed away.

"Yer hurtin' my arm, woman," he muttered.

Carol's lips were parted and both of their bodies were slick with sweat and God knows what else. He swung his feet over the side of the bed, leaning forward to grab his drawers off of the floor. He slid them on and stood. His shirt was folded neatly on top of the bedside table, his pants flung halfway across the room. He grabbed them both.

"Gotta shower."

He quickly exited into the adjoining bathroom, making sure to lock the door behind him.

He could hear Carol moving around in the other room. In a rush, he turned the shower on. He needed to drown out the noise. He stepped out of his drawers and into the shower, thinking how stupid it was to have put them back on, just to take them off. But he wasn't thinking straight. Carol had this way of making sure he wasn't thinking straight. It happened fast. Too fast. She was beside him and then she was on top of him and then the clothes were coming off. He didn't just jump into bed with anybody, but still, he was no stranger to sex. That wasn't what scared him. It was the intimacy. Lord, the thought of just staying in that bed naked and cuddling and fucking pillow talking was enough to make him consider giving it all up. He never let himself finish. He could get too slow, too groggy and tired and it would be harder to make an escape. Instead he just let his body suffer the price so his mind could relax.

The water was cold, which served him just fine. Rick and Herschel had cut off the hot water weeks ago. Trying to converse energy, they said. He didn't mind. Not one bit,

He looked down. Blood and dirt were streaking down his body and congealing at the drain. How long had it been since he showered? Cleanliness wasn't a huge priority in the Dixon house. And old habits died hard, especially when the world was going to shit.

There was a bar of soap and a few bottles of conditioner in the shower. He smelled each one, deciding on the least girly. He scrubbed himself raw and washed his hair twice. He took his sweet time. He still saw the shower as a luxury. He doubted the safety of the farm. They wouldn't have electricity and running water forever.

When he felt satisfied he cut the water off and stepped out of the shower, shivering slightly. He grabbed a few towels off of the rack behind the door and dried himself off, leaving them in a crumpled heap on the floor. Old habits.

Cautiously, he returned to the bedroom. Carol was gone, the bed made. Silently, he thanked the Lord. He was already beginning to doubt himself. Things had spiraled out of control and he made no attempt to stop it. Carol had just lost her little girl, and her husband before that. He knew how much she hated the bastard – he had seen her hacking him to pieces, after all. But she wouldn't just get over him. She was frail and too emotional. He had just made matters worse. She would assume she was his responsibility now, and he'd be damned if he cared for anything or anyone other than himself.

He tried to savor the feeling of a shower after a good fuck. Tried to find some normalcy in it. That had always been his favorite part. When he first started picking girls up in bars he was, as to be expected, by Merle's side. Merle was always the one to bring a girl home. Daryl usually ended up getting in some type of fight and busting his lip or cracking his head open. It wasn't until Merle landed himself a real jail sentence that Daryl really started fucking around. It started off with one blowjob in the bathroom of the bar and after that, well, he didn't exactly slow down. But his favorite part was always going back into the house after seeing the girl off. He'd shower and then lay on his bed, cock hanging out, listening to the game on his old as shit transistor radio. He liked how satisfied his body was, how relaxed he felt. And how easy it was for his mind to wander to Sarah Jane: something he didn't let himself do often. It was easy – too easy – to recall those last few months. The stifling heat and those tiny little jeans cut-off shorts she wore. The ones that were just a little too short and the shirts that didn't quite cover her stomach. It was too easy to remember how when she would lie down, the shirt would ride up and those little shorts would just hang off of her hips.

But now, he was the opposite. He couldn't relax. His muscles were tense and the pain in his head and arm had been reduced to a dull throbbing, but it set him on edge.

Merle would be proud of him, he figured.

_Good one, baby brother. _He'd say. _All them dumb shits're runnin' 'round, thinkin' 'bout 'emselves 'n' yer out spreadin' yer seed. Just 'magine. Little Daryls. _

Fuck. No. That was even worse.

He had seen Merle's hand. Hell, he had taken it and still had it hidden in his tent. He had heard Rick, trying to convince him to move on, let his brother rest in peace – but knowing Merle, even if he was dead, he would still be stirring the shit pot. He had tried to hard to convince himself Merle was till out there. And he believed it. But now? He was wrong. He knew it. Merle was dead. Dead and gone. And yet, he was still dictating his actions. Still whispering at him through a voice in the back of his head.

_What would Merle do?_

Merle was more than 10 years his senior. He wouldn't go as far as to say that he had raised him, but he sure as hell was around more than his old man had been.

_What would Merle say?_

He never would have fucked Carol. He never would have stayed with the group this long.

_What would Merle think?_

Daryl was on his own. He had no one to turn to. He couldn't leave. The whole damn group relied on him and as much as he hated that, he didn't think he could stand to have their blood on his hands. Jesus. He was going soft. Maybe getting out from Merle's shadow was a bad thing.

There was a knock on the door. His heart damn near stopped beating.

He didn't move.

There was another knock, and then came Carol's voice, just as soft and concerned as ever. "Are you gonna get lunch?"

"I'm sleepin'," he managed. "Leave me the fuck alone."

There was a pause and he heard something clink and retreating footsteps. He waited a minute longer until he knew the hallway outside was deserted and he opened the door. A silver tray was waiting for him, complete with a huge, steaming bowl of stew, an entire loaf of bread and a glass of water.

He took the tray in and locked the door.

He took a sip of the water and then another and another until the glass was empty. And then he went to the bathroom and filled it up under the sink. He drained that too. It wasn't until he finished the third refill that he turned his attention to the stew. He tried to control himself. He really did. He hadn't eaten in nearly a day, and especially given the circumstances, it was easier said than done. He needed the food more than he needed oxygen. He nearly went out for seconds, but decided to stay holed up in the bedroom for as long as he could. He knew he would have to leave sooner or later and deal with the repercussions of his actions, but for the moment, he decided to stay put. See if he couldn't just sleep it off.

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><p>And there you have it! Like I said, this is my favorite chapter so far. ;)<p>

The whole inspiration for this came from an interview I saw with Norman Reedus and Sean Patrick Flannery. Norman had been quoted saying that he was trying to play Daryl as a "virgin with a chip on his shoulder." Well, during the interview someone asked Norman how could Daryl possibly be a virgin when all the fans want to have sex with him? And he responded with something along the lines of "I don't mean he hasn't had sex. I mean, yeah, he'll fuck you but he won't want to cuddle." It was strangely cute! Probably just cause Norman is so cute. I'll see if I can't find the link.

And again, a HUGE thank you for all the reviews! Y'all are the BEST! I'm gonna try and make the chapters from here on out longer and better for y'all!


	6. The Best Cowboys

I think y'all are really gonna like this chapter! It's slightly longer than the last one. That's always a plus, right? Well, before you enjoy I just want to take a minute to give a few much needed shout-outs...

A HUGE thank you to ResidentGoth for all of her help! You should all go and read her story "Running Away Never Works." It's great! Give her lots of reviews and favorites and story alerts.

And also, I want to thank jaded79, kdoggt, abovetherim and xpoppyx for the constant reviews! Y'all are the BEST. Thank you! So everyone, keep reviewing and maybe mrsdaisybuchanan will give you a personalized thank you. I know you all want one very badly...

Well, I still don't own TWD. I don't think I will by the time I post the next chapter, either. If I ever get the rights to it, it'll be renamed The Walking Daryl...just so y'all know.

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><p>He was in the backyard, sharpening his hunting knives on the old, beaten up whetstone when he heard the door swing open. Faster than his brain was able to process, Merle had crossed the yard and knocked him off his feet in one swift blow. "Give it here, yeh stupid dipshit prick."<p>

He couldn't breathe. Merle had him pinned down, knife at his neck. "Jesus Christ, Merle. I ain't done nothin'."

Merle decked him in the jaw and pressed the knife into his neck, breaking the skin. A thin line of blood bubbled up.

"Tell me where it is, 'fore yeh start to really piss me off."

"What the fuck're you goin' on 'bout?"

Another blow. This one crashed into his cheek.

"Yeh know damn well what I'm talkin' 'bout."

The dirt below him was warm, soft. It felt good on his bare back. He could have stayed there forever, he figured. If Merle wasn't beating the shit out of him, of course.

"I ain't got whatever yer lookin' for," he reached up, trying to push him away. "Now get off."

Merle shifted his weight, damn near cutting off the blood to Daryl's head. He was starting to feel sick. "'N' I ain't got time for yer bullshit." He swiped him with the knife along his collarbone. Daryl cried out in pain and Merle laughed, reaching into his pocket. Daryl already knew what it was. He was not new to Merle's forms of punishment. He squirmed and tried harder to push him off, but he weighed too much. He closed his eyes when Merle pulled the packets out of his pocket. He tried to look away. Merle took his chin in one hand. "Yeh gotta watch this one, baby brother," he growled.

With his free hand, he brought the packet up to his mouth and ripped it in half, pouring the salt directly into the fresh wound.

Daryl had never felt something burn so badly – hurt _so goddamn much. _He was almost delirious with pain. Lord, have mercy.

"Now, where is it?"

"Told ya. I ain't got it," he mumbled, his chest searing with pain.

Merle laughed again. "I reckon yer tellin' the truth. But if yeh ain't – and I will find out if yeh ain't – it'll be oats next time."

He emptied the last few crystals of salt onto Daryl's red, burning chest and stood up. He crumbled the packet up and threw it on the ground. He turned, spit and hitched his pants up as he walked off.

Daryl stayed motionless on the ground. He waited, and before long he heard the engine of Merle's bike revving to life. He was gone in less than a minute.

He took a minute to catch his breath and stood up. He staggered inside, blood dripping down his chest. He made his way to the bathroom and gripping the sink for support, assessed the damage in the mirror.

The gash was deep, red and angry. The skin around it was raised and sensitive to the touch. He looked around the small, gritty bathroom for some soap. Of course, there was none. He stumbled out and down the hall to his and Merle's room. There was a half-drunk fifth of Mr. Boston on the floor beside Merle's bed. He picked it up and returned to the bathroom. He unscrewed the top and took a long pull. The stuff tasted like shit and he could feel it burning a hole as it went down. It just made it all the worse. He took a deep breath, readying himself, and poured it on the wound.

The pain was worse than when Merle had cut him.

Salt, dirt, oats and sand all burned like a motherfucker when they got under the skin. But nothing could come close to the burn – the heart stopping _pain_ – of cheap, 80 proof liquor. Daryl gripped the rim of the grimy sink, gritting his teeth against the sensation that his chest was being ripped open by the Devil himself. He kept his mouth firmly shut, fighting the urge to scream out. He bowed his head against the pain, a few tears leaking out of his eyes. But he had to do it. Merle's knife was crawling with dirt and bacteria and things that could really fuck him up. He had cut him once before, on the inside of his arm, and Daryl hadn't bothered to clean the wound. He was delirious for a week. His old man had actually taken him to the hospital. It was that bad. Doc said it was one of the worst infections he had ever seen. Said he was lucky to get out of there with his arm in one piece.

It took nearly half an hour, but eventually the pain subsided. Daryl's jaw was numb from being clenched so tight for so long; his knuckles white. He dressed the wound best he could.

He settled onto his bed, fifth in one hand, cigarette in the other. He alternated between pulls and drags, until he was finally able to shake the feeling that he was getting used to this type of shit.

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><p>When Daryl woke, it was still dark. The dawn had yet to break and the house was quiet and still. He slipped out easily. Years of hunting had taught him how to silence his steps. Years of living with Merle had driven him to do it instinctively.<p>

The Georgia heat was relentless. Dark as it was, an unmistakable blanket of heat and humidity already covered the land. He crossed the open field to the tents, clenching and unclenching his empty fists, and within minutes beads of sweat blossomed on the back of his neck and under his arms.

His bike was propped up against a tree. He stopped to give it a once-over: It was a little banged up and one of the mirrors was broken, but other than that it was unscathed. Maybe all those years of going to church were paying off.

He unzipped the entrance to his tent and stepped inside. Even in the darkness, he knew where everything was. He dropped to his knees by the sleeping bag and groped for the lantern. He turned it on low, casting an eerie glow. His crossbow, gun and the cigar box were sitting on the sleeping bag, like they were just waiting for him. Whoever moved his bike must have moved all of his shit, too.

He picked the box up and turned it over in his hands. It was small, the wood worn and smooth. The words _El Salvador _were painted on the top in sprawling, faded letters. It was heavier than it should have been, but regardless, he slid it into the waistband on his jeans, where he normally would have kept his gun. He took the crossbow and slung it over his shoulder. Hooking the gun onto his belt, he couldn't help but reminded of the cowboy movies he had watched as a child -growing up, the only movies his old man let him watch were either pornos or old Westerns, and as much as he never would admit it, he preferred the Westerns by a long shot. He had seen _The Magnificent Seven _so many times he could quote the entire thing. He liked the whole cowboy thing. The way that nobody fucked with them. The way that they shot first, asked questions later. He used to run around in the backyard, firing off empty rounds with his old man's busted six gun, pretending he was shooting at the bad guys, protecting the town, saving the damsel in distress. All that shit. He liked the cowboys because he felt like he could have been one of them. He could ride a horse, shoot a shotgun, live off of the land. He used to dream about it. But then he grew up and realized how stupid that was. In the movies, the cowboys were always the good guys – and he couldn't be a good guy, not unless he was pretending.

He shook his head, bringing himself back to reality. He turned the lantern off and stepped into the brightening day.

"Now, it's good to see you out and about, but where are you headed?"

He stopped. Rick was sitting on top of the RV, shotgun across his lap, reclining carelessly like he wasn't looking out for walkers that were going to try and eat his family, but rather enjoying the sunrise.

"Huntin'," Daryl grunted, continuing to walk.

Rick climbed down from his perch, sprinting to catch up. "Daryl, listen. I know you're upset 'bout what happened to Sophia. You're not the only one. Trust me. But don't do this. Don't isolate yourself. Glenn told me 'bout what happened when y'all were out on the highway. How you told him to just go back to camp. And then you show up back here, hours later, runnin' a fever and crash your bike? We thought you got bit. You know, you ain't alone here. You're a part of this group, whether you realize it or not."

Lord. He shifted his weight between his feet uncomfortably. He liked Rick. Thought he was one of the more well-balanced members of the group – other than his tendency to turn a blind eye to Shane. But he didn't want to hear this. He _couldn't _hear this. He wasn't part of the group and he wasn't going to stand there and listen to Rick sing praises he didn't deserve. "Chinaman can't keep his damn mouth shut, can he?"

Rick sighed. He ignored him, continuing on. "Don't hold yourself responsible for what happened to Sophia. It wasn't your fault and there wasn't nothin' you coulda done to stop it."

Daryl hitched the crossbow up. "Gotta get goin' 'fore it gets too light."

He turned his back to Rick and like a bat outta hell, made his way to the outskirts of the farm.

The terrain changed quickly, as it always did in Georgia. The gentle, rolling pastures came to an abrupt halt, to be replaced with murky, low-laying wetlands, shrouded in trees. The sun was climbing higher and higher on the horizon and it was cooler under the trees. Daryl pulled the rag out of his pocket and wiped his forehead. He tried to focus. Tried to listen for some sign of life. See if he couldn't find any tracks. But all he could think about was Carol. He had failed her. She counted on him to find Sophia and the whole time he had reassured her that he would. That she was out there and she was alive and he would bring her home. But of course, she wasn't. And he hadn't. That was more than enough reason to hate him. And then he had gone and fucked her, just to make matters worse. She would want nothing to do with him. And as much as he hated it, and as much as he tried to deny it and to think about something else – he didn't think he could stand it if she hated him. If it was anybody else? Sure. Fine. What fucking ever. He was a big boy. He didn't need friends – or rather, stupid dipshits telling him what a great guy he was when they didn't know shit about him. But Carol? Lord. What was happening to him? He was definitely going soft.

He pushed on, desperate for something. A tuft of fur. A paw print in the mud. Anything. He had come back from his last few hunting trips damn near empty handed. He was beginning to wonder if there were even any animals left. He hadn't seen a deer since before they had left the camp at the quarry. The number of people was dwindling every day. Wouldn't the animals go faster?

He had tread the land surrounding the farm so many times he could have found his way back with his eyes closed. There was a stream just ahead where he could stop, get some water, and take a minute to bring himself back down to Earth. He didn't need his head up in the clouds. Not out here. It was too dangerous.

When he saw it, he could have kissed it.

The buck was crouched low by the stream, drinking slowly. It was long and slender. Probably upwards of 200 pounds.

Daryl raised his crossbow and shot it in the thigh. It collapsed and he sprung forward, shooting it again through the eye. He hated to see it suffer. Grinning, he pulled the bolts out and wiped them off on his pants, storing them away. He had to hand it to himself, he had done good. In all his years of hunting, he didn't think he had ever had a kill come that easy.

He abandoned the crossbow on the bank of the stream and waded in. He wasn't going to let himself get another bolt through the side. Once was more than enough.

The sun was shining brightly now and the cool water felt good. He scooped up handful after handful and drank greedily. When was satisfied, he climbed back onto the bank, dripping wet and refreshed. He bent over to pick up the crossbow and his first thought was back to that summer day, so many years ago. He actually believed Merle had come back from the dead and tackled him. He was knocked to the ground with so much force he actually slid forward. The crossbow was knocked away as the walker climbed on top of him. He tried to flip over – onto his back – but the walker weighed too much. He bucked his hips wildly, trying to knock it off. He wouldn't stay still. He had to keep moving. They didn't have quick reflexes. He managed to flip onto his side and the walker was still straddling him, it's mouth coming closer and closer. He reached blindly, trying to find the crossbow. Finally his hand brushed the cold metal. He grabbed it and pointed it point blank at the walker. He fired dry.

"Fuck," he muttered. "Fuck!"

With all the force he could muster, he slammed the butt of the crossbow into the walker's head. There was a loud crack and – for just long enough for him to free himself – the walker stopped moving. He scrambled to his feet and the walker followed suit. He moved as fast as he humanly could to reload, cursing loudly the whole time, desperately resorting to kicking the walker away. Finally the bolt was in place. He raised the crossbow and shot. Immediately it fell to the ground.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Daryl all but shouted, kicking the walker in the head. He glanced around to see if any more were coming, but the coast was clear.

The gun and the cigar box had fallen out during the struggle. He thanked the good Lord that the gun hadn't misfired. He took it and slid it back into his belt, more securely this time. The box had burst open when it hit the ground, and he kneeled down to retrieve the contents. He hadn't wanted it to happen this way. He wanted more time to think. To weigh the consequences before he made a decision. But with the bags flung every which way, it was hard to deny it.

He had seen Merle do it so many times. It was so _easy._ He knew which was which, no doubt about it. He gathered the bags up and placed them carefully back into the box. He wanted the white pills. Not the yellow or the red. He practically crawled, looking for the bag he knew they were in. Merle was always the user, but Daryl had dabbled in them enough to know that one was enough, and in thirty, maybe forty minutes, he wouldn't give a shit about Sophia or Carol or _anybody. _

It was the last bag he gathered up. He snatched it victoriously, and held it up. But no. No, it couldn't be. The bag was full of little white pills, just fine. But a tiny silver cross glinted from inside of it, too. Jesus was still nailed on it, just as he had been all those years ago. Lord, no. He couldn't believe it. But he would recognize that cross anywhere. How many times had he watched it swing from her neck, bouncing against her bare chest?

It was Sarah Jane's.

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><p>Cliffhanger! Or, a bit of one anyways. :)<p>

Y'all make sure to review, now! I can't tell you how much I appreciate them.

And also, in homage to Robert Kirkman and the comics, all the titles of the chapters are 3 words. But the title for this one (The Best Cowboys) comes from the saying "even all the best cowboys have daddy problems." Just in case anyone was wondering, I wanted to put that out there. :)


	7. Alone Down There

For some reason I don't understand the site decided they were going to let me post this chapter, but not have it show up unless you clicked directly on the link in the new chapter email. So I deleted and reuploaded it. So let's hope it works this time!

I think I've said this for the last 2 or 3 chapters, but this is my favorite chapter so far. I think y'all will agree! I apologize it took me so long to get it up, especially compared to how quickly I've been updating, but I am actually drowning in work. Just a warning: Don't major in hospitality.

But I'd like to thank everyone for the reviews! They mean SO much! I love writing this story and I'm absolutely delighted to get everyone's positive feedback! The more reviews I get, the quicker I update. ;)

And of course, thank you to ResidentGoth for putting up with me clogging her inbox with my extremely fragmented writing. If y'all haven't read her fic "Running Away Never Works," you need to! Seriously.

But enough from me.

I don't own The Walking Dead. Wishful thinkin', y'all. I do however tweet at Robert Kirkman more often than I should. Just wanna see if he'll give me a job once I graduate... )

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><p>He had half a mind to bury the damn thing. Leave it in the dirt and mud and pretend he had never found it. She was always slipping in and out of his mind. He supposed, in some fucked-up, teenage way, he had loved her. And you never forgot your first love, right? Wasn't that the way the saying went? She was always in the back of his mind. Always floating around somewhere, somehow. But lately – with the world going to shit and all – he hadn't been thinking about her so much. Well, he <em>was. <em>But that was more when he couldn't sleep and he needed to rub one off. He hadn't _thought _about her – about her death – for years. He couldn't. It was just too damn painful. His mama had gone, not even a week before. He only ever had two women in his life and he lost them both so quickly. He knew life wasn't fair, but Lord. That really took the fucking cake. For his mama's funeral, he got his first ever tie. Well, his only tie. He never needed one before. He had never gone to a funeral, never gone to a wedding. It was a plain, red silk tie that he bought from the Goodwill. He bought it because he didn't think his mama would want him to wear all black. She didn't like the color. Said it was too sad – made her think of bad things. She liked lighter colors like blue and yellow. But Daryl didn't think it would be appropriate to wear a yellow tie to his mama's funeral. So he decided on red. He kept it for years, too. Would have had it longer but Merle took it one day and used it as a tourniquet. It was ruined after that.

He could feel it coming on. Slow and surely, he could feel it. Just the same as ever. Funny how some things didn't change.

He remembered the first time. It was funny, really. He had a more vivid recollection of the first time he got stoned than the first time he fucked.

He had been with Merle, of course. Merle was already gone. Strung out on something Daryl didn't even know the name of. He was eleven – almost twelve – at the time, and it was back when Merle still had his old and beaten up F-150 with the Confederate flag sticker peeling off the bumper. They were in the truck together, on the way back from the package store. Merle pitched a fit when he realized there was no bourbon in the house. He never was a big bourbon drinker, but for some reason, it had been the most important thing that he had some. Daryl had just come along for the ride. They were halfway back when Merle just stopped. Pulled the truck over to the side of the road and rolled the windows up.

_What're you doin'? _

Merle didn't answer. Just leaned over and opened the glove compartment. He pulled out the cigar box and flipped the lid open. The paint was just beginning to fade, chipping at the edges. Daryl watched as he rolled himself a joint and lit up, right on the side of the road. He inhaled deeply, letting the smoke just tumble out of his mouth. It had a sweet, sickly smell to it. A smell that, after that day, he smelled everywhere. In his clothes, his hair, his sheets, on the tips of his fingers. When Merle passed him the joint, he had half a mind to refuse. He knew what it was, knew what it would do to him, what type of road it would lead him down. But the beating that Merle would give him if he refused was worse than any of the circumstances he could imagine if he just smoked the damn thing. So he took it and copied Merle.

He never liked smoking pot much. But it opened the door for him. Got him onto bigger and better things. Merle always laughed at him, when he came to him and asked for the painkillers, or for the Adderall. But that was what Daryl liked, and he wasn't about to deny himself anything. He liked to chew the pills. Grind them between his teeth and let the bitter taste invade every inch of his mouth. Cover every single taste bud. He knew what he was doing was bad, that it was wrong – and that was his punishment. A bad taste in his mouth for a few minutes. It kept him balanced. Kept him from turning into Merle, who had no boundaries. No limitations. It didn't completely fuck him up. Just partially.

So, when he found Sarah Jane's cross, he decided it was the Lord's way of telling him to get stoned. He wrapped it up in his bandana and tucked it away into his back pocket and chewed one of the white pills. And then he chewed another, just for good measure. One and he would feel alright. Two and he wouldn't feel anything.

* * *

><p>Daryl returned to the camp slowly, his hands empty. He lingered on the outskirts of the farm, out of sight, for several minutes. He waited to see if the crowd outside would thin out. It didn't. He hitched the crossbow up, and starring resolutely ahead, went straight to his tent. He passed Lori and Rick, who stopped mid-argument. Rick called his name, stepping forward with his eyes narrowed. He was trying to stop him. He knew. Oh Lord, he knew. He heard his name again and sped up. He was only feet from his tent when he saw Carol approaching, arms crossed over her chest. He ducked inside, kicked off his boots and dropped the crossbow to the ground. He took the box from his waistband and hid it in his pillowcase. He didn't have to hide it, he knew. But old habits die hard, right? He lay down on the sleeping bag and for the first time in nearly a day, he let himself relax. The tent was pleasantly warm. The sun was just beginning to set and the whole thing was practically glowing with the light from outside. He was sweating, but just slightly.<p>

He felt strangely disembodied, as though time was passing by but he couldn't feel it. From outside the tent he could hear voices. A man laughing, a woman calling for Carl.

His mind was racing, but his reactions were delayed. When the flap of the tent opened, Carol was already inside before he had even sat up.

"We need to talk," she said firmly.

It wasn't the first time he had heard those words. Sarah Jane had said them to him, all those years ago. They had been sitting on the lowered tailgate of his truck and she was eating peanut butter out of the jar with a plastic spoon. She had shown up unannounced and demanded that he drive her halfway across town to buy that goddamn peanut butter. She ate it slowly, told him _we need to talk, _and then took nearly an hour just to break down into sobs.

"Alright," he muttered.

He knew it was only a matter of time before this happened. He had dreaded it, planned on avoiding her for the next few days, but now? Maybe it was the pills he had ground into oblivion, or maybe it was that damned cross in his back pocket, but he was too tired to try and avoid her any longer - avoid the conversation any longer.

She took a deep breath, steeling herself. "I don't sleep around. You're only the second man I've ever slept with, and quite frankly, I feel like I just gave you my virginity. You can pretend all you want, but that won't change what happened. It was special to me, but it obviously wasn't to you."

He took his time replying. His body may have been working slowly, but his mind was reeling. He had to be careful. That's what growing up with Merle and the old man had taught him. Pick your words carefully.

"That ain't true," he said softly. Softer than he meant to.

She started slightly, seemingly realizing that she was still standing while he was sitting. With the clumsiest movements he had ever seen the woman make, she lowered herself to the ground, not taking her eyes off of him. "Then why have you been hiding from me?"

Well, shit.

Where to begin? His thoughts didn't come naturally. They were all jumbled up. One coherent thought would suddenly burst forward and that would lead to another thought and before he knew it, he had turned over half a dozen topics in his head. Focus. He had to focus. There were so many reasons. Did she want all of them?

"I don't wanna let you down. I ain't good for nothin', other than lettin' people down."

"Daryl, you're not going to let me down," she said. She was smiling slightly, but her voice was sad. Heavy. "Not unless you keep acting like this. I don't like you talking like you're worthless."

He wanted to argue. To throw her words back at her. But that urge was fleeting, and replaced by a wild, bucking desperation.

"C'mere," he murmured, his voice husky.

She frowned, just slightly, but still scooted herself closer to him. He could see the dirt in the corners of her face, the tears welling up in her eyes.

She leaned forward, bringing her hand to his cheek. He flinched involuntarily. "I don't know who did this to you, but you don't have to be scared anymore." Her voice shook as she cupped his jaw in her hand, stroking his cheek along the bone. The skin was smooth, warm. It was probably the softest part of him. "This isn't the type of world where we can make promises lightly, but I'm making one right here, right now. I promise you that you will never, and I mean never, let me down. You'll never disappoint me."

He closed his eyes. All he could think was that this woman had just lost her little girl. That her entire _world _had been torn apart right in front of her eyes, and she was powerless to stop it. And yet, here she was. Comforting _him. _It didn't make sense.

"C'mere," he repeated, opening his arms and beckoning her forward.

She came to him easily. He wrapped his arms around her and held her as though their very lives depended on it. She clung to him, her fingernails bearing down into the exposed skin of his arms. But he didn't mind. Not one bit.

"I cried," he said, arching his neck so he was whispering directly in her ear. "Y'know, after the barn. Hell, I think we all did. You ain't alone."

He was never the type to offer comfort or support. He didn't hold women in his arms, or run his fingers through their hair. Hell, he didn't even let them stay the night, if he could help it. But it just felt so damn _natural. _

Carol was crying openly. She shook gently, her tears falling onto Daryl's shoulder. "You know what I can't stop thinking about?"

"What?"

"My parents. I mean, they're dead. They have to be. But I keep thinking that Sophia has to grow up without her grandparents. And then I remember that she's gone. And it's just like seeing her come out of that barn all over again. I lost my little girl. I lost my parents. I lost my husband, even if he was the biggest bastard in all seven hells."

Her face was buried in the crook of his neck, her voice low. Daryl shifted, bringing her closer to him. She was shaking harder now, crying openly. He kissed her wherever he could reach. The top of the head, her temples, her forehead. He wasn't embarrassed or ashamed, and for once, there was no voice nagging in the back of his head, asking _what would Merle think? _"Well, you ain't gonna lose me. You're stuck with my redneck ass."

She laughed slightly, her sobs subsiding. She pulled away until she was face to face with him. "I don't – "

He cut her off, pulling her closer and kissing her. He tried to be gentle. To be calm. To keep his head level and not let his hormones rage. He wanted to show her that he could control himself. That they could make this work.

He was the one that pulled back first, regretting his actions. He hadn't done it right. He had messed up somehow, sent the wrong signals.

"I never done this, bein' perfectly honest."

Her fingers ghosted over the muscles in his shoulders. She kissed his neck slowly, moving down to his collarbones. She kissed up the length of the scar from where Merle had slashed him. "You just did, few nights ago."

He pulled away, looking at her straight on.

"I ain't talkin' 'bout fuckin'."

She knotted one hand around his neck, raising the other to his forehead, brushing his hair away from his eyes. "You're a quick learner."

He laughed dryly. She was wrong. Flat wrong. He could survive, sure. He grew up hunting, knew how to bag a catch, clean and prepare the kill. But it had taken the end of the world for him to learn the most basic of social skills. He didn't know how to build relationships with other people. He didn't know how to interact and socialize and all the things that he should have been born knowing.

"No, I ain't."

She sighed, her hand moving back to his face. She stroked the line of his jaw, gently and slowly. "You're doing it again. You're talking about yourself like you're not worth anything. If we're going to do this, and I think we already established that we _are, _then you're not going to talk like that anymore."

He nodded gruffly. Carol's hands had slipped to his chest, playing with the buttons of his shirt. He knew what she wanted, and he'd be damned if he didn't want it too. "'M tryin'."

"Try a little harder."

The first few buttons of his shirt were already undone. She undid the next one slowly, deliberately, eyes fixed on him.

Only, Daryl had never been the patient type.

He clashed his mouth against hers and yanked his shirt off. She ran her hands over the muscles in his arms and she was below him, his full weight pressing down on her.

Her hands dropped below his waist and he kissed her feverishly in the fading light.

* * *

><p>Daryl Dixon was not a gentle lover. He tried, bless his heart, but she still woke with her thighs aching and bruises blossoming on her hips. Angry red marks were scattered in patches on her neck and shoulders. She could even make out a few faint bite marks.<p>

Daryl was still asleep, his back to her. He had his fair amount of battle scars, too. His back looked like a kitten's scratching post. She couldn't help but smile. She had a made a mark on this man. Literally.

Almost as if on cue, he rolled over.

"Mornin'," he said, his voice heavy, eyes hardly open.

"Good morning," she said, repressing a sigh.

Last night, when she came to him, she didn't know immediately. But it didn't take her long. She felt that the whole experience had been cheapened because of it. Daryl only opened up to her because he was stoned. He wasn't in his right mind. He wasn't thinking straight. She knew the excuses. She had heard them all from Ed. She braced herself for the inevitable. When he came to – when _really _came to – and the reality of the previous night hit him, he'd never speak to her again. She figured she only had a few more seconds left of this, before he was completely awake and his eyes would widen with the realization of the previous night. She'd ruined whatever possibility there was for a relationship. She hated to admit it, but she had grown to really care about Daryl, to want to be with him. She had ruined that all. And for what? Some brutal, animalistic sex and meaningless promises? She was ashamed of herself.

But Daryl turned onto his side and propped himself up on one arm, the other coming to rest on her hip. He fought to keep his eyes open.

"How long you been up for?"

"Not long."

His eyes fluttered shut and it seemed that he had fallen back asleep. But he opened them again, slowly this time.

"I ain't the sleepin' in kind, but damn woman. Got me fuckin' tired."

She didn't want to believe it. This was Daryl Dixon. Where was the anger? The denial? He had slipped away the first time. Why not now?

"Sleep in all you want," she slowly, testing the waters. "No one's gonna bother you."

"Temptin'," he mumbled, settling back onto his back. "But someone'll start bitchin' sooner or later. My money's on Lori."

He stayed put, not showing any signs of leaving. Or asking her to leave, for that matter. He was silent, and once again, she wondered if he had fallen asleep. His eyes were shut and his chest was rising and falling in a steady, rhythmic pattern. She looked at him and felt her judgment clouding. Maybe it was better if she just went back to sleep. She pressed herself up against his side and in his sleep, he brought his arm up, wrapping it around her.

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><p>Let me know what you thought! From here on out, y'all should expect the updates to be a little slower but the chapters'll get longer and the plot should be picking up within the next chapter or two.<p>

Like I said, hope everyone enjoyed. Don't forget to review. :)


	8. Shot To Hell

Hey y'all! After several weekends of drinking too much, not getting enough sleep, and changing my major, here's the chapter. I hope y'all enjoy. This isn't my favorite chapter but I promise the next two will more than make up for it. ;) In the meantime, y'all should check out ResidentGoth's "Running Away Never Works"! Great Daryl story!

Enjoy and make sure to review!

As always, I still don't own The Walking Dead. And Robert Kirkman still won't retweet me. Bastard.

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><p>When Daryl woke, it wasn't just raining. It was fucking <em>pouring. <em>It was like some biblical, torrential downpour. At some point in the morning, the sky had ripped itself open and thrown a flood down upon them. It was mid-morning, maybe nine or ten, but it was still dark outside.

Of course, Daryl was no stranger to sudden, violent storms. They were pretty common in Georgia. It would blow over in a few minutes. His mama used to always reprimand him when he was little and complained about the weather. _If you don't like it, _she'd say, _wait ten minutes._

He unzipped the flap of the tent, sticking his head out. He could hardly see five feet in front of him. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it wouldn't just blow over.

A glowing light across the way told him the Grimes were awake, their tent lit from the inside. They were no doubt scrambling, trying to figure out how to organize the others, given the circumstances.

The wind changed directions, splattering him with cold rain. He shivered. He hadn't gotten dressed yet: He was still in his drawers.

He felt a hand on his bare back. "Get back in here, before you catch cold."

He grudgingly complied, zipping the tent back up. "Sound just like my mama."

Carol frowned. "I'm not sure I like that comparison."

He laughed and Carol couldn't help but smile. It wasn't everyday she saw Daryl smile, let alone laugh.

"You hungry?" Daryl grunted.

"A little."

He stood, crossing the tent and kneeled down. He fumbled in the semi-darkness, grabbing his pack. He brought it back to the sleeping bag and spilled out the contents. Several loose pieces of chocolate, a package of licorice and countless mini candy bars tumbled onto the nylon. Carol looked at him in disbelief.

"What?" He said gruffly. "Gotta sweet tooth. Somethin' wrong with that?"

"No," she said, picking up a piece of chocolate. "Not at all."

They sat in silence for several minutes. Carol picked out her favorites, savoring them slowly. Daryl sucked on a lollipop, watching her with an eyebrow cocked. "Sorry it ain't eggs and bacon or any of that fancy shit."

She laughed. "This is a thousand times better."

"Wouldn'a minded. Makin' you breakfast, that is," he said quietly, his eyes fixed on the lollipop wrapper in his hands.

She reached out, placing her hand on his. "It's okay," she said softly. "Really. This is perfect."

He bit down hard on the lollipop, cracking it in half.

"You know what we oughta start makin'?

"Tell me."

"We got defenses. We got food. We needa start makin' moonshine. It'd do a lotta us better than clean clothes."

She unwrapped a piece of caramel, her eyes fixed on him. "Daryl Dixon, did you just make a joke?"

"Dead serious," he said, his tone unwavering. "A walker ever get me, just let me drink myself to death. Don't worry 'bout shootin' or any of that."

They lapsed back into silence, the rain whipping against the side of the tent. They ate until the stash was nearly depleted, and then they ate a little more.

Carol was smiling at the floor and again, Daryl felt that desperation welling up. He hesitated, wondering where exactly they stood. He had never been serious with anyone, other than Sarah Jane, and he was the only one who had taken that relationship seriously. He didn't know what Carol's boundaries were or how far he could push them.

He wanted her, but there was something so innocent about her. She had never fucked anyone other than Ed until him. He had fucked lots of women. Even now, without even the slightest notion of the social hierarchies and classes that existed before, Daryl still felt like the woman was too good for him. But Carol looked up at him and that was the end of it. Self-control be damned. He drew her close and kissed her hard. His head was spinning just slightly and he was grateful he was sitting down. Her fingers grazed over his bare skin and the dingy little tent began to fade away.

* * *

><p>"Daryl."<p>

"Yeah?"

"I-I uh, need another minute."

He sighed, leaning back in the bed of his truck. At this point, the metal ridges in the bed were more interesting than she was. Sarah Jane had abandoned the jar of peanut butter and sat with her back to him. She was wearing a white University of Georgia shirt. _We don't just travel, _it said. _We take over. _

Well, she took over. That much was true.

Daryl wasn't in the mood for this. He was no good with emotional support or whatever the hell she was looking for. Seeing her cry turned him off. Unnerved him. He couldn't shake the feeling he was about to get some bad news. She wasn't going to break up with him, seeing as they weren't even together. How could she break up with him if they weren't together? No, it was something much worse. Expressing emotion wasn't something she did well. If she was crying, she had a damn good reason for it. And Daryl reckoned giving him the heave-ho wasn't the reason.

"Okay," her voice was shaking, but she wasn't crying anymore. He took that as a good sign.

"Alright."

"No, no. Not okay."

His temper flared. They had been sitting out in the sun for the better part of an hour and she had hardly said a word. He worshipped her, sure. But he wasn't too patient. He just wanted her to say whatever she was thinking.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ. Just spit it out, already."

She was silent. He was worried he had made matters worse, and that she was going to start crying again. But she took a deep breath, gathering her nerves.

"I'm pregnant."

"What?"

"I'm pregnant."

"Yer sure?"

"Yes."

"How?"

For the first time since they had sat down, she turned around. She kept her body forward, twisting her torso to glare at him, her eyes burning.

"Stupid question. Sorry. Guess we gonna get married, then. I ain't able to buy you anything fancy, but I'm 'boutta get a job at the chicken factory. When my first paycheck comes in I'll buy you a real nice ring."

She hitched her legs up, swinging herself around. She was inches from him. Her eyes were hard, blazing with anger and skepticism. "What're you goin' on about?"

"We're gonna get married, ain't we? You ain't havin' my baby without bein' married to me."

She held her face in her hands. She was beginning to cry again. He wanted to do something to make her feel better, to realize how excited he was. He never would have admitted it before, but he always wanted to have a family. He hoped the baby was a girl. He would love to have a little girl. He knew his mama would too. She had always wanted a daughter. Instead, she got him and Merle. God had a cruel sense of humor.

"Daryl," she choked out, her voice heavy. He scooted himself closer to her, reaching out a hand to try and comfort her. He touched her shoulder softly and she slapped his hand away. "I ain't keepin' the baby and we ain't gettin' married. You're just a dumb redneck."

He felt as though the wind had been knocked out of him, like he would never be able to breathe again.

"Out."

"What?"

"Git out. I don't want you here."

She didn't argue. She just slipped off the tailgate and made her way down the street. He waited, watching her retreating figure until she turned a corner and he couldn't see her anymore. And then he waited a minute longer.

* * *

><p>He beat the kid within an inch of his life. He didn't mean to, had only meant to scare him. But he didn't seem to be able to stop himself, as of late. It was over when he started talking about the two little girls. He saw red and the next thing he knew, the kid wasn't moving.<p>

His knuckles were bruised and there was bloodied skin underneath his fingernails. He didn't bother trying to dig it out. He left it there – kept it as an effigy to the anger he had bored into. He hadn't felt that angry – that out of control – since the ordeal with Jim, back at the quarry. The kid wasn't the first man he had nearly killed. He felt like a junkie, slipping back into the addiction. Up until now, heåß had been controlling his anger. It wasn't dictating his actions any longer. But in the barn, he had just lost it. When Randall started going on about the two little girls, he hadn't imagined Carol in their place, but rather, Sophia. He couldn't shake that image. The little girl, helpless against her offenders. Not that that hadn't happened, already.

The ground was still soft and muddy and there was an unnatural chill in the air. Daryl hardly made it out of the barn before his knees gave out. He leaned against the side of the barn, unable to support himself. He felt so angry, so completely enveloped by his hatred. Involuntarily, that nagging voice came back to him. _What would Merle do? _

Merle wouldn't have stopped. Merle would have beaten him to death, no doubt about it.

But Daryl was better than that, he told himself. _He_ _wasn't Merle_. Even if he thought the kid deserved to burn in the most horrible pits of hell, he hadn't been the one to send him on his way.

Rick had called for a meeting to discuss the kid's future. Daryl didn't want any part of it. He was too angry. Too enraged. He wasn't thinking straight. And, on top of everything, he could feel the cross in his back pocket, digging into his skin.

Usually, he tried not to linger in any emotions, whether they were good or otherwise. But he couldn't help it. His anger took a physical manifestation, straining his muscles. Burning his bones. His heart was pounding against his chest, fingernails digging into his palms.

"Daryl." Carol's voice was soft, concerned. He couldn't look at her. Of course, she caught on immediately. She grabbed his hand, examining his bruised, bloody knuckles. "What happened in there?"

"I toldya," his words slurred together. "I ain't a good guy. I damn near killed that kid. I ain't – ain't," his voice faltered, unable to finish the sentence.

Carol slipped her hand into his. Her hand was warm, the skin soft. He raised his head, looking at her. Her eyes were on him, her expression kind, patient.

"Things are a little different now," she said slowly, picking her words carefully. "A year ago, I'd be terrified. I mean, I am terrified, but not in the same way. Out here, you do something bad, you get your comeuppance. And if that's death, then so be it."

Daryl could feel his temper slowing. He was coming back down to earth. He wasn't sure, but he thought he could hear the kid whimpering from inside. He had to get away.

Carol seemed to read his mind. She gave his hand a gentle tug. "Rick wants everyone in the house. Let's go."

He nodded and they set off for the house. Once they came in view of the front porch, she let go of his hand, but remained close by his side.

* * *

><p>Just as he suspected, Dale argued for sparing the kid. Save the group's humanity, he said. Rick didn't seem able to make up his mind. He was stuck between trying to keep the group safe from Randall and keeping them safe from Shane, who seemed to be just as much of a threat. Daryl thought he should've just shot the kid and told the others later. He was the leader, after all. He had the right to make decisions on his own. But regardless, he followed Rick and Shane into the barn, where the kid was still tied up, whimpering and crying. Pathetic.<p>

"It'll all be over soon," Shane said, his eyes wide.

With a shaking hand, Rick raised the gun to the kid's head. Daryl thought about encouraging him, giving him some words of justification, but decided against it.

Rick's finger itched on the trigger.

"Do it, Dad."

Carl was just feet away, a crazed, sick expression on his face. Rick's resolve snapped and he broke down. Once again, Daryl slipped away quietly. He didn't want anything to do with Rick or Carl or Shane or the kid or anything.

He made his way back to camp, keeping an eye out for Carol. He needed a break, some peace and quiet. Since the rain had let up that afternoon, he hadn't had a moment to himself. He needed things to slow down, just for a few minutes. It seemed as though Randall hadn't been a threat until today, and then suddenly, he was more dangerous than the walkers.

He wished Rick would just make up his mind and stick with it. But when he was with Carol, Rick was the last thing on his mind.

When he found her, she was sitting by Sophia's grave, pulling the petals off of a Cherokee rose. Immediately, he could tell something was wrong. He sat down next to her.

"Rough day, ain't it?"

She had torn all the petals off of the rose, but she kept her eyes fixed on it. "I ran into the Grimes boy earlier, sitting here," she gestured down at the makeshift grave. "He told me I was an idiot for believing in Heaven."

She was practically shaking with anger.

"He fucked up the Randall thing too," Daryl tightened his grip around her. He felt like he was back in junior high school, trying to figure how to show girls he liked them. He wanted Carol to know she could trust him, could confide in him. "Showed up outta nowhere and told Rick to shoot him. Rick chickened out. I left."

"He's out of control."

"I guess parentin' ain't a big thing no more," he said. Carol nodded, twisting the stem around her finger. Daryl was overcome with compassion, with pity, for the woman. He wanted to see her smile, to be strong again. He put his arm around her. "Don't listen to a word that punk says. He don't know shit."

Carol opened her mouth to say something but was silenced by a deep, rough shout. Both of them were on their feet in an instant. Daryl drew his knife and they were running towards the shouting.

They were some of the last ones to arrive, and by that point, it was clear Dale was gone. Daryl kicked the walker off of him and drove his knife into its head.

Rick was shouting and the others were crying but nothing processed in his mind. He felt disembodied, as though he was reminiscing on the scene. Rick had his gun at Dale's head, and for the second time that night, it was clear he couldn't shoot. Daryl pulled the gun out of his hand and kneeled down. He steadied himself, squeezing off a round.

"Sorry, brother."

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><p>Yeah, poor Dale. Hated writing this chapter. It gets better after this, I promise!<p>

Y'all make sure to review, now!


	9. Flat Outta Luck

Hey y'all! So, sorry about the delay. I wanted to have this up earlier. I really did. But it's been a CRAZY few weeks! Anyway, I hope y'all enjoy!

I don't own The Walking Dead. I did, however, get to go to the house that was used as Rick's house in the pilot. Benefits of dating a contractor in Atlanta, y'know...

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><p>When they put Dale down, Carol couldn't stop crying. She had come to love the man, but she was thinking about her Daddy and his suits. He wasn't materialistic, but he loved his suits. He had one for every occasion: Blue, grey, black, windowpane, seersucker. The seersucker was his favorite. He wore it to her high school graduation, and later, her wedding. She figured he would've wanted to be buried in that suit. Of course, she never saw him go. He was gone now, no doubt about it, but she just couldn't get her mind off of that suit. If he was wearing it, he would have died happy.<p>

"Carol."

She looked up. Daryl was standing in front of her, crossbow slung over his shoulder, his arm outstretched. It wasn't until he had helped her to her feet that she even realized she was sitting. He reached out and with the calloused pad of his thumb, wiped a tear off of her cheek.

"Quit cryin'," he said softly. "We got work to do."

She nodded, taking a deep, steadying breath.

"Rick's got me fixin' a fence on the North side. C'mon. You're gonna help."

She followed him to the already loaded bike and they rode in silence to the fence. There was a lone walker stumbling around, outside of the property. Involuntarily, Carol's muscles tensed and her heart picked up. Daryl stopped the bike.

"Ain't nothin' to worry about," he said, loading the crossbow. Almost lazily, he aimed and shot the walker straight through the eye. With a strangled noise and a spurt of blood, it fell to the ground. Daryl pulled the bolt out and cleaned it. He reloaded it, slipping off the bike. He pulled the tools from his saddlebag and they worked in silence, him quickly, Carol slowly.

After several minutes, he put the hammer down and looked Carol straight in the eye. "You're upset. Yeah. I get that. It's a cryin' shame 'bout Dale. Really is. But we ain't got time to sit around 'n bitch 'n moan. We bury our dead but we just don't got time to mourn. Death ain't no big thing. Not anymore, way I see it."

Carol turned away from him, her eyes closed. He was right. Too right. Tears threatened to well up in her eyes but she didn't let them spill over. He had seen her cry too many times in the last few weeks. Lord, today alone. She nodded and tried her best to smile.

"I think that's the most I've ever heard you say."

Daryl picked the hammer up, laughing shortly. "Hell. Probably is. Didn't do much talkin'. Not with Merle and my old man, anyway."

That familiar sting shot through her at the mention of his old man, but she kept it down. Daryl was actually talking about himself. In light of recent events, the phrase "when hell freezes over" was a little out of date. But she couldn't help but think that was when she would hear Daryl Dixon open up about himself.

"Got along best with my mama," he continued.

"I was a Daddy's girl," she said quietly, watching as he drove a nail into the fence.

"Lucky you."

"Tell me about your mom."

He stood up, brushed his pants off, and grabbed a few planks of wood off of the bike. He brought them back to where they were working and let them tumble to the ground. He picked one up and laid it flat against the picket of the fence. He drove the nails in quickly, moving on to the next one.

"Ain't nothin' special 'bout her," he stopped, wiping sweat off of his forehead. "Don't get me wrong. She did alright by me. I loved her and all but she just wasn't 'round an awful lot. 'Specially not when my old man was home."

Carol hung on every word. She had always found Daryl attractive, even when he was still just Merle's white-trash, trailer home little brother. But now, there was something about him. Something she hadn't seen before. He looked so calm – so at ease – just working on the fence. Maybe it was a hint of normalcy: A welcome shadow from the life he had left behind. He wasn't smiling, but there was a definite up-turn to his lips. He was drenched in sweat, and his bare arms glistened under a layer of dirt.

"Took me to a ball game once, though. That was nice."

"The Braves?"

"Yeah. Like I said, I ain't got a lotta nice, happy memories from bein' little, but I had a real good time. Merle and my old man were locked up, so I reckon she was feelin' in a pretty good way. It was my seventh birthday. We went to the Varsity. I damn near ate myself into a coma. Braves were playin' the Phillies and they won. It was a playoff or somethin' an' people were shootin' off fireworks. Only time I've ever seen 'em."

"I took Sophia a few times. I don't think she enjoyed it much. She just liked the food."

"Didja live in the city?"

"Yes. In Grant Park. Do you know where that is?"

"Yeah. Well, shit," he glanced at her. "How'd y'all make it outta there?"

Carol stood, crossing to the bike. She looked through the saddlebag, trying to find a hammer or some nails or _something. _She felt so useless. Just like she felt with Ed. She remembered sitting with him, too, watching as he worked on the house. Those were the early days, though. Before Sophia was born and they still had some notion of happiness. Before the dam broke and the floodwaters came rushing out. He was still a decent man, but those were the days when she first started feeling as though she was losing something. She was never quite able to put her finger on it, but she just knew that something was slipping away. Every day, every _week _that passed, she felt more and more helpless. Stranded. Alienated. But she didn't want to feel that way with Daryl. She wanted to show him that she wasn't useless; that she actually had some worth.

"What're you lookin' for?"

"A hammer."

"Bottom of the bag."

She shook the bag, the contents rattling away to reveal a small hammer. It was heavier than she expected but it felt substantial: reassuring. She mimicked Daryl, holding the planks of wood up and driving the nails into them. She wasn't nearly as fast or as accurate as he was, but it was easy work and she had no problem doing it.

"I thoughtta somethin' funny earlier."

Daryl was looking at her, squinting against the sun.

"What's that?"

"I didn't watch a lotta TV. We ain't have a workin' one most of the time. But I saw a few episodes of this one show. I can't remember the name, but it was just like this. 'Cept not, 'cause the dead weren't walkin'. But the world went to shit there, too. They were livin' out in the mid west, but they kept talkin' 'bout Atlanta, and Atlanta fallin', and I just remember thinkin' 'bout what if somethin' like that actually happenin'. Not seriously, mind you. But just thinkin' 'bout it. And, y'know, it did. I'd fuck a duck, if there were any left."

Carol burst out laughing. "You would what?"

"Fuck a duck."

Carol doubled over, her sides aching from excursion, but she couldn't stop laughing. Daryl frowned.

"I'm not laughing at you. I've just…" she trailed off, unable to speak.

"Ain't never heard that sayin', have you?"

She shook her head.

"Fuckin' city folks. Y'all think us livin' out in the country are the weird ones."

Before Carol could answer, she heard footsteps approaching. Heart already racing and hand instinctively tightening on the hammer, she turned around.

"It's just me," Rick said loudly, gun in one hand, the other held up in caution. He turned his attention to Daryl. "It's Randall. He stole Shane's gun and made a break for it. We gotta go find him."

Daryl was on his feet instantly. He nodded solemnly and began to pack the saddlebag. "Give me ten minutes. And then I'll be ready to get goin'."

Rick nodded and began to make his way back to the house.

He mounted the bike but it remained lifeless. Daryl's hands were clenched against the handles, his knuckles turning white. She could see the muscles in his back tensing and he was silent.

"Daryl, what's wrong?"

Almost as if a reflex, Carol brought her hand to his arm and squeezed reassuringly. He jerked away and before she could realize what had happened, he was back on his feet and the bike was crashing to the ground. "Goddammit!" he exclaimed to the bike. His anger seemed to build and he raised the crossbow, shooting several bolts through the saddlebag. ""S'that little shit. It's my fault. I knew I shoulda just finished him off. If you coulda heard the things he and his group done. He ain't the type that deserves the chances we been givin' him. If he gets his hands on any of us…"

His voice was so ragged she could hardly make out the words. But it damn near broke her heart, hearing the man being so down on himself. Carefully, she took a step towards him and with one hand began to rub his back, hoping to calm him down.

"This is not your fault and you know that. You'll go out there and find him and you'll tell Rick and Shane and all the others whatever it is that he told you. Don't forget: You are one of, if not the, most valuable members of this group. If you think we just need to get rid of him, I know the others will listen."

Daryl grunted his agreement and started the bike without another word. They made it back to the farm in less than a minute. Rick, Shane and Glenn were waiting on the front porch, weapons in arms, looking expectantly out at the land before them.

"I'll unload everything," Carol said, her eyes fixed on Daryl.

He looked as though he was going to smile but simply nodded. The others filed down and Shane recanted the story as they cut across the fields towards the woods. Carol watched the retreating figures, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

"You better get used to it," said Lori, walking down from the porch to stand by Carol's side. "It's gotten pretty tough to give advice recently, but I can say that with certainty. You better just suck it up and soldier on. They're not going to change."

"What are you talking about?"

"Daryl. I can promise you this isn't the last time you're gonna have to sit around and wait while he goes out there. Risks his life. You have to get used to it."

"Lori," Carol repeated. "What are you talking about?"

"I know y'all are together. I can't speak for the others, but I know. I've seen the way he treats you. It's pretty obvious."

She didn't see any sense in denying it. Lori wasn't speaking for her health. This was something she had been through, countless times.

"How do you do it? I'm already worried sick."

"Stay busy," she took her hand, leading her inside. "There's plenty to do. A little hard work does wonders."

The others were scattered about the house, so absorbed in their tasks they didn't notice the two women.

She followed Lori into the sunroom at the back of the house. The storm shutters were stacked neatly against the wall.

"Herschel brought these down this morning. I don't think he's used them in a decade but it's better than nothing. They're supposed to go on the outside of the house but I think it would be safer to put them inside," Lori crossed to the window, running her hand down the length of the frame. She smiled weakly. "The old man just doesn't want to damage his house."

Carol nodded her agreement. They lifted the shutters onto the windows and nailed them into the frames. The room grew darker and darker and Lori kept up a steady flow of conversation. Carol didn't pay much attention. It wasn't that she wasn't interested – she was just too preoccupied, worrying about Daryl. She didn't know how it had happened – how quickly her feelings for him had progressed. She figured she had always felt something for him, right from the beginning. Her and Ed's marriage had failed long before Sophia was born, and the rising of the dead was just the cherry on top. With Daryl, she wanted him simply because she couldn't have him. At least, in the beginning. He was crude, surly and wildly temperamental. The dangerous type. Volatile. Maybe it was because something about him reminded her of Ed, and maybe it was because she had never been with another man before. But whatever it was, in those early days, her heart ached whenever she looked at him. And then the camp got invaded and they took Ed and she was much, _much _more relieved than she should have been. Daryl and Sophia seemed to get on well enough and he was almost always around them. Maybe she was imagining it, but he seemed to talk to her more often than any of the others, and when they made it to the CDC and he found the Johnnie Walker he offered her a swallow. Of course, she had never been a big fan of whiskey, but it figured that he was. And then, just days later, she lost her little girl and he was the only one that really seemed to _care. _She knew by that point that there was something between them, something more than schoolyard crushes. Not long after that was the day he crashed his bike outside the farm…

"I don't think I've seen anyone smile like that in months," Lori said suddenly, breaking Carol out of her thoughts.

She didn't even realize she had been smiling until the woman said it.

Yes, she figured. She had always felt something for him.

"It's been a long time since I've felt this way," she put the hammer down, examining the shutter she had just mounted against the window. Her hands were rough and calloused, her back aching. "And to be honest with you, I feel guilty."

Lori stopped and turned to face her. "Why?"

"Just look around us. We just lost Dale. One of the most important members of this group. I lost my husband. My little girl. There are creatures out there that are trying to kill us that used to _be us. _We worked with them, lived with them, maybe even loved them. And now they'll rip us apart if they get the chance. This is no place to fall in love."

"Don't be ridiculous," Lori's arms were crossed over her chest and her face was set but her voice was soft. Kind, even. "There's more than enough misery out here. If you find something that makes you happy, you do whatever it takes to make sure you keep it. This ain't the type of thing you should deny yourself."

"You're right."

Lori smiled weakly and turned back to the window when the door opened and Maggie came in.

"Glenn and Daryl are back. They want to talk to everyone. Said it's important."

Carol felt as though a hundred pounds of pressure had been lifted from her chest. Daryl was back. He was safe. Lori, however, gripped the hammer tightly, her eyes wide. "What about Rick? And Shane? Are they back?"

Maggie shook her head and motioned them out. Carol followed closely behind. Daryl was standing by the door, crossbow in his arms. As soon as he saw Carol he nodded curtly as if to say _it's okay. I'm okay. _She smiled briefly and he began to talk.

At first, she didn't understand. They must have been wrong. Mistaken. There was no way they were right. They just overlooked the bite or the scratch or whatever it was. He couldn't have just _died _and come back as a just couldn't. It wasn't possible.

She was frantic and beside her, Lori was growing more and more desperate.

"Please," Lori begged. "Find Rick."

Daryl nodded and loaded the crossbow, but he didn't even make it off the front porch before he stopped.

Immediately the others were by his side, seeing what the delay was.

Carol had never seen anything like it. She had been scared before, felt her body freeze with terror, but nothing – absolutely _nothing _compared to this. There were thousands of them, staggering straight towards the farm, arms outstretched, bloodied mouths open and gaping.

It was panic. Everyone was moving, grabbing guns and loading clips. She allowed herself to be carried away, hidden safe in the house. All the while, she could hear shouting and screams and the booming explosion of firing guns and the only thing she could think was Daryl. Where he was, if he was safe, if she would ever see him again.

And then the safe haven was gone. Lori tugged her away, out of the house, shouting at Herschel to follow and it all happened too quickly. Just minutes ago, it seemed, they had been fixing the windows in the sunroom, enjoying the last rays of the setting sun, and now she was alone. She had no idea where she was or how she had gotten there but the walkers were closing in on her and she heard the engine roaring but she had no idea how or where it was.

"C'mon woman, I ain't got all night!"

He was just beyond them. She could make it.

She pushed through weakly and all but fell onto the bike. She gripped him as tightly as she could muster and tried to blink back the tears.

They were gone. All of them.

It was just her and Daryl, and she couldn't stop herself from thinking their luck would run out soon.

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><p>This was one of my favorite chapters, so I hope y'all enjoyed it too! It was a lot of fun writing entirely from Carol's POV. Or trying to, at least... Don't forget to review!<p> 


	10. Tried and Tempted

Howdy! It's been a while...hasn't it? I had to put this on hold to focus on school. And lo and behold, I didn't lose my hope scholarship. :D But I'm sorry it took me so long to update. Hopefully I'll have another chapter up soon! Y'all make sure to review! It's my birthday tomorrow and that would make my day even better. That and tequila. ;)

I don't own the Walking Dead. But I can dream, right?

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><p>The next few days passed in a blur. Carol felt herself slipping back into the blissful ignorance she had always retreated to when the going got too rough with Ed. She would simply turn her mind off and let the events unfold before her, refusing to take part in anything. Then, it was keeping her mouth shut and her eyes unfocused during a beating. Now, it was standing in the back of the procession and trying her hardest to block out Rick's speech at the funeral. Now, it was not bothering to worry about the Randall boy escaping from the barn. And even now, when she felt that rough grip on her arms, she retreated even further into herself. In those days, she had wanted to be strong. She really did. To up and leave Ed behind. But she couldn't care for Sophia, not on her own.<p>

"Carol."

The grip tightened, just slightly, and she braced herself for the blow. But it never came.

"Daryl?"

It almost surprised her.

"Who'd you expect, woman?"

"Sorry. I sorta lost track of things."

He had the crossbow slung over his shoulder, knife in his belt and he was still holding her. "Listen, I ain't gotta lotta time. The kid got out somehow and Lori's got me and Glenn lookin' for Rick and Shane. The farm ain't safe no more. Protect yourself. Don't worry 'bout no one else but you."

His words came too fast, too serious. She couldn't grasp their meaning. The farm was safe. Lord, the farm was the embodiment of safety. What was he talking about? But it all happened too quickly and before she could ask, he was gone.

"Carl?"

She turned before she realized it wasn't her name.

"Have you seen Carl?"

Lori was shouting, wide-eyed and frantic.

"What?"

"Carl! I can't find him anywhere."

She wanted the world to stop turning so quickly, she wanted time to feel the pain of her losses. The sting of losing Dale. The constant ache that was Sophia. She wanted to be back in the tent with Daryl, eating candy and hiding from the rain.

But Lori was on the verge of tears and Patricia and Beth were pointing towards the barn. Or, what used to be the barn. Now it was a burning heap of ruins.

Somebody was pulling her out of the house, down the steps and off of the porch, but she couldn't keep up. There were walkers everywhere – worse than in Atlanta. She tried to fight them off but there were too many and she only had a tree branch to protect herself with. They kept coming, kept pushing her back until she was pressing against the side of the shed, unable to move.

And that's when she heard it. That familiar roar. The groan of the breaks. She didn't know where he had come from, but she didn't care.

"I ain't got all day!"

Even as she ran to him, the walkers kept pressing in on all sides. He fired off shot after shot but it made no difference. She gripped him tightly and closed her eyes as the bike jerked forward. She didn't look, didn't want to know. Even the wind rushing in her ears couldn't block the moan of the walkers, the resonating screams playing in her mind.

They had been on the bike for hours when Daryl abruptly turned around. He pulled off the main road and slowed. She didn't see it at first, but that's why he was the hunter. The house was tucked into the upslope of the land, only half of it exposed to the road.

He stopped the bike and hid it in the bushes.

"Stay here. I'm gonna see if it's safe."

"No. I'm coming with you."

"Yeah? And how're yeh gonna defend yerself?"

She looked down at her bare hands. She didn't have a gun, or a knife or even a stick. But then she remembered. "The tools! From when we were working on the fence. They're still in your saddlebag."

Daryl shot her a look but she opened the bag, and sure enough, the hammer was sitting on top, waiting for her.

"See?" She said, trying not to sound smug.

He sighed, loading his crossbow. "Just be quiet."

The house was small and cramped, boxes scattered everywhere. Books were pulled off the shelves, cans of food laid abandoned on the ground. The ground was covered in a thin layer of papers and glass. When they found the lone walker, it was Carol who took her out.

Daryl dragged the body out of the house and patrolled the perimeter while Carol scavenged the house. There wasn't much of anything left, other than a few cans of beans and potatoes.

They set up camp in the living room, building a small fire and dragging the couches closer together.

Daryl pulled a bag of jerky out of his pocket. "You hungry?" He grunted.

She was, of course. The day had slipped through her fingers and she couldn't remember the last time she had had a sip of water, let alone a bite to eat. But she didn't want Daryl to think she was dead weight, that she was incapable of going a few days without food.

"I'm okay," she lied.

He picked up a can of potatoes and pulled a knife from his belt, using it to open the can. "Well I'm starvin'."

He offered both the can and the jerky to her, and hesitantly, she accepted. The potatoes were raw and the jerky was salty, but it was damn near the best thing she'd ever eaten.

"Steak and potatoes," she mused. "You sure know how to romance a woman, Mr. Dixon."

Daryl laughed shortly – more of a grunt, really. "Even got dessert."

"Let me guess. Baked Alaska? Crème Brulee?"

With the tip of his boot, Daryl pushed around the logs in the fire. "Fresh outta 'em. Got some Kit-Kats left, though. Reckon I might even have a Snickers."

They lapsed into silence, eating for once without any reservations. But Carol found herself full quickly and when she shared the candy bar with Daryl, it was far, far too sweet – the sugar overpowering in stark contrast to the modest vegetables she had grown accustomed to.

Daryl excused himself and disappeared. A few minutes later he returned, a rare smile plastered on his face.

"Found me a pack of smokes," he boasted, holding up a pack of Parliament Blues. "Half full. And there must be a well or somethin' cause the water runs."

Carol was just as ecstatic as him. "Running water? You're joking, right?"

He laughed – deeply, this time. "It's even fuckin' hot."

She got to her feet. "No," she said, incredulous.

"Yeah."

"Good lord. Now that's a miracle if I ever saw one."

"I figure the house has got its own generator. Think it's alright to run the water but I don't wanna go turnin' on lights 'nd shit."

"Of course. I'm not sharing my hot water with any walkers."

Daryl nodded and she made her way to the bathroom. It was small, covered in dust, and the door hung off its hinges, but she didn't mind. She turned on the water and as excited as she was, she felt anxious. She would be too vulnerable, too exposed. She stood in the center of the shabby room, deliberating. Finally, she returned to the living room.

"That was quick," Daryl said, eyes still focused on his half-cleaned crossbow.

"I don't like the idea of being split up like this."

What she really meant was that she didn't like the idea of being alone, that she was scared and defenseless without him by her side.

"Yer right. I'll stand watch outside the bathroom."

It was beyond relaxing. For the first time in this new world, Carol closed her eyes and she wasn't afraid. The water came down in steady sheets, radiating warmth that calmed her, her mind, her muscles. There had been showers at the farm, but none with hot water. She was so happy, so tranquil.

"I've gotta question fer ya."

Daryl was in the doorway, just an arm's length away. Carol tipped her head back, felt the water cascade down her face.

She had even found some shampoo.

"Shoot."

"What'd ya do before all of this?"

Nothing. That was the honest to god answer. Wasted away, waiting hand and foot on Ed. Daydreamed about getting out, finding salvation for Sophia: the one meaningful thing in her life. But she had a life before Ed. A much, much happier one. And this was a time for happier thoughts.

"I was a teacher."

"No shit?"

She laughed. "No. No shit. I taught ballet at an arts center near Emory. I mostly taught the young kids – the beginners. Oh, lord. I loved that job. I loved ballet. I wanted to be a ballerina. Spent my whole life training for it."

She had said too much. Even from beyond the grave, the back of her neck still prickled and she could feel the ache in her legs.

"Why didn't ya?"

"Had an accident. Threw my knee out and broke my ankle. Took me 6 months to recover, before I could dance again. And by then, my company had moved on. In the dance world, no one's gonna wait for you to get back on your feet. It's vicious. I just couldn't find work as a dancer after that, so I started teaching."

"What kind of accident?"

"What did you do?"

She heard him sigh but knew he wouldn't push the subject. She didn't have to say what type of accident. He already knew perfectly well.

"Whatever I could. Lotta farmin', mostly. Before shit hit the fan I found me some real work, though. Me and Merle worked fer a movin' company, loadin' and unloadin' the trucks. Had me another job, too. Worked for a chicken farm, breakin' chicken necks. Didn't much like it, but it was good money."

She tried to imagine Daryl in line in a huge warehouse, grinding chickens in his hands, adorned in the rubber suit. She could only see him as he was now. Rough and tumble, crude and gritty. She couldn't imagine him as an employee of some huge company, or moving furniture back and forth. But, then again, he probably couldn't see her as a teacher, let alone a dancer: As someone who could do beautiful things, make beautiful things out of the dust.

The woman she had been was gone, and she found herself suddenly forlorn and full of dread. She shut off the water and quickly dressed. For the rest of the night, she was silent, thinking of all the times she had told herself she would change, she would find a way to return to the things she loved. Well, now she never would.

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><p>Thanks for reading! Make sure to review! And happy holidays, y'all. :)<p> 


	11. Some Kinda Blessing

Welcome back, y'all. I have NOT given up on this story, and I just wanted to get something up to prove it to y'all! This is pretty short, but I promise I'll be back soon with a proper chapter. Think of this as a little interlude.

And I went ahead and took the liberty of fast forwarding a little bit, so we're now at the prison... Anyway, enjoy! Make sure to review!

Sadly, I don't own The Walking Dead.

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><p>Carol never cared much for Dave Matthews. She found his music too unstructured, too complex and thought it rambled on for far too long. She liked her music simple and concise. Reliable. When she listened to a song, she wanted to be able to understand it; to know she could pick it apart, word for word, note for note. She couldn't do that with Dave Matthews. With any jam band, really.<p>

But that was before.

Music had become a luxury, a rare commodity.

So, when she found a copy of the Dave Matthews Band's _The Central Park Concert_ hidden in a drawer of one of the administrative offices, she was overjoyed.

Ever since the first day, she had been carrying around an unopened pack of batteries. In the chaos and confusion of trying to pack a bag for the apocalypse, she had grabbed them. She thought, as time wore on, that maybe they could have some value. That maybe she could trade them for something more useful or break them out during some crisis, and they would just magically solve everything, and she could be some sort of hero.

Of course, nothing like that had happened.

But as she turned the CD over in her hands, she was glad. Now, she had a use for them that was more important than she could have ever imagined.

She stuffed the CD into her bag and hurried through the catacombs until she reached the cell block where they had taken up residence. With a sense of urgency she hadn't known in weeks, she looked for Daryl. She found him atop the metal stairs, wiping dirt off of one of the windows that looked out over the prison yard. Without a word, she grabbed his wrist and led him away. Together, they slipped into her cell and drew the sheet she had hung up in the doorway, shutting them off from the rest of the group.

The radio was hidden underneath her bed, nestled between spare jackets. Another remnant of her former life she had meant to leave behind, but never found the strength to. The batteries inside still had some juice in them. She just had never been able to find a CD. But now she had one. Daryl watched with muted interest until he realized what she was doing. And when he did, he couldn't fight back the grin that broke across his face.

One of the speakers was busted, the sound scratched and distorted, and she doubted she had ever heard something quite so beautiful. Laying in bed next to Daryl, radio in between their heads, she allowed herself to forget. If just for one song.

For the entirety of the 11 minutes and 58 seconds, she surrendered to the music. Let it wash over her, cleanse her. Rolling, unabashed applause came in waves, peaking as hesitant plucking gave way to a jazzy, confident baseline. The slow, soft introduction flowed into gentle melodies, mellifluous verses.

"_Crazy how it feels tonight_

_Crazy how you make it all alright, love_

_You crush me with the things you do"_

Gradually, the other instruments began to play. Horns, strings, drums. The music was overtaken by a slightly sinister crescendo, building and building and building and finally exploding into an all consuming cacophony of pure sound.

"_Lying under this spell you cast on me_

_Each moment_

_The more I love you_

_Crush me_

_Come on"_

It was at this point that the music overtook her, rocking her back and forth, up and down, taking her to a place she had never been, had never even dreamt of. Sound pounding in her ears, eyes closed, she slipped her hand into Daryl's, and when he closed his fingers over hers, she saw fireworks and stars and warm, sweet grass.

"_It's crazy I'm thinking_

_Just as long as you're around_

_And here I'll be dancing on the ground_

_Am I right side up or upside down_

_To each other we'll be facing"_

The music meandered for several minutes, and just when she thought the musicians had lost the original image of the song, their harmonies and melodies and riffs and syncopations fell in line and with a sudden resolution of building octaves, it was over.

Dave thanked the audience, gratitude and awe clear in his voice, and he was met with a deafening roar. Unrelenting cheers. There must have been tens of thousands of people, maybe even hundreds of thousands, cheering him on. The thought of so many people, alive and well, gathered together, made Carol's head spin. She could hardly imagine more than a dozen people together anymore. Any more than that meant carnage; bloodshed.

Slightly dizzy, she shut the machine off. She had allowed herself nearly a quarter of an hour to forget, to throw herself into something that so hardly existed anymore and indulge. Something that was a reminder of time past, time lost. But there was work to be done.

She sat up and Daryl followed suit. He smiled shyly, running a hand through his hair.

"Guess I'm a Dave Matthews fan now."

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><p>The song used above is The Dave Matthews Band's "Crush," from The Central Park Concert, 2003. Really a phenomenal show, and I highly recommend it and all other DMB. I saw them a few months back and it was a damn good show. If you like jam bands (or just music really, let's be honest y'all), I'd give it a listen!<p>

But I wanna give a huge shout out to all of my readers for sticking with me this long. I promise I won't let y'all down! The next chapter should be up in a few weeks. Make sure to review in the meantime!


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